mp^ 


SKETCHES 


EUROPEAN  CAPITALS. 


BY 


WILLIAM   WARE, 


AUTHOR   OF 


ZENOBIA,  OR  LETTERS  FROM  PALMYRA,   AURELIAN,  &C. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON   AND   COMPANY 


MDCCCLI. 


^,^     ^     / 


KntiTiMl  ucconling  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  liy 

Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co. 

in  the  Clerk's  OHicc  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Ma.ssachusetts. 


TUfllSTON,   TOlmV,    AND    EMEIU^O.N,    PIII.NTKIIS. 


PREFACE. 


This  small  volume  comes  into  existence,  like  so 
many  others  now-a-days,  as  a  convenient  way  of 
disposing  of  matter  previously  used  in  the  form  of 
Lectures.  They  are  the  sketches  of  a  traveller, 
and  aim  to  give  the  first  rapid  impressions,  with  as 
little  error  and  exaggeration  as  possible,  of  places 
visited  in  the  course  of  a  year's  absence.  I  only 
hope  they  may  not  prove  more  incorrect  in  fact, 
or  false  in  inference,  than  the  majority  of  writings 
of  the  class.  It  is  a  volume  of  light  reading  for 
the  summer  road-side  ;  and  though,  like  the  flowers 
of  that  season,  perishing  with  them,  one  may  be 
permitted  to  hope  that,  like  some  of  them,  at  least, 
it  may  exhale  a  not  unpleasing  fragrance  while  it 
lasts. 

CAiiBRiDGE,  June,  1851. 


M30S517 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


CONTENTS 


ANCIENT  R03IE         .....         1 

ST.  PETER'S  AND  THE  VATICAN     .  .  43 

FLORENCE      ......       91 

NAPLES      .  .  .  .  .  .149 

THE    ITALIANS   OF   MIDDLE    ITALY     .  .     195 

LONDON 251 


ANCIEXT    ROME, 


ANCIENT    ROME. 


The  approach  to  Rome  on  any  side,  and 
in  any  direction,  is  signified  to  the  stranger 
by  his  entrance  upon  the  Campagiia,  that  vast 
level  tract  which  extends  in  all  directions, 
almost  an  equal  distance  from  the  walls  of  the 
city  to  the  Mediterranean  on  the  scuili,  and 
to  the  roots  of  the  Apennines  on  the  other  sides. 
It  is  commonly  spoken  of  and  loosely  described 
as  a  plain,  an  absolnte  plain  ;  and,  seen  from  a 
distance,  such  it  appears.  Seen  from  any  of  the 
neighboring  heights,  Tivoli  for  instance,  with 
its  blue  mist  hanging  over  it,  and  it  looks 
more  like  an  ocean,  than  any  territory  with  its 
hills  and  valleys,  its  forests  and  ruins.  Still  as 
you  cross  it  from  any  one  point  to  any  other, 
it  is  found  to  present  a  very  uneven  surface. 
It  might  be  called  more  appropriately  perhaps, 


2  ANCIRNT    ROME. 

ill  our  American  phraseology,  a  sort  of  rolling 
prairie.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  only  for  a  very  short 
distance,  whichever  road  yon  take,  that  yon 
are  on  snch  a  formation  that  you  can  see  for 
more  than  a  few  miles  aronnd.  You  find,  as 
yonr  carriage  proceeds,  that  you  sink  and  rise 
again  like  a  vessel  at  sea,  now  below  the  hori- 
zon, so  that  for  a  time  all  neighboring  objects 
are  cut  off,  then,  mounting  upon  elevations 
which  command  a  view  far  and  near  of  the 
dreary  and  desolate  region  you  are  traversing, 
and  carry  the  eye  so  far  as  jnst  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  highest  of  the  Alban  hills,  and 
of  the  dome  and  ball  of  St.  Peters.  The 
lower  portions  of  the  plain  seem  more  like 
ravines,  old  dried  up  water-courses,  or  hollows 
which  in  the  rainy  season  might  fill  M'ith 
water  and  from  small  lakes,  than  any  thing 
else.  Very  little  vegetation  any  where  sliows 
itself,  except  the  grasses  which  are  heavy  and 
abundant,  indicating  a  fertile  soil.  Indeed  this 
is  one  of  {\\r.  unexpected  aspects  of  the  Cam- 
pagna.  that  all  over  this  uninhabited  desert 
there  are  the  most  unmistakable   evidences  of 


THE    CAMPAGNA. 


3 


a  soil  which,  with  good  cnhivation,  would  sup- 
port a  dense  population.  Wherever  the  face  of 
the  country  shows  a  broken  bank,  the  earth 
is  of  that  dark  brown  color,  almost  black,  which 
gives  assurance  of  mines  of  wealth  below. 

Scarce  a  tree  is  to  be  seen  over  its  whole 
extent ;  or,  if  some  low  groups  of  forest  trees 
are  met  with  here  and  there,  they  are  in  the 
deep  hollows  and  hardly  lift  their  heads  above 
the  general  level  of  the  plain.  Shrubs  of 
various  kinds  skirt  the  roads  and  climb  up  the 
sides  of  the  ravines,  and  in  the  summer  season 
wild  flowers  and  roses  of  a  thousand  kinds 
contend  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  brambles 
and  weeds  for  the  supremacy,  and  sometimes 
one  and  sometimes  the  other  obtains  the 
mastery,  and  gives  its  character  to  the  scene. 

Although  the  Campagna  is  rightly  described 
as  a  wild  and  desert  region,  it  is  not  without  the 
occasional  variety  of  a  human  face  and  form, 
and  even  a  group  of  low  half  ruined  cottages, 
appearing  never,  however,  as  if  built  or  in- 
tended for  the  humble  uses  of  domestic  resi- 
dences to  which  they  are   now  devoted,  but 


ANCIKNT    ROME. 


the  crumbled  remains  of  palace  or  castle  of 
former  days.  About  these  melancholy  ghost- 
like ruins  are  sometimes  seen  a  few  of  the 
inhabitants,  men,  women,  children,  —  the  men 
clothed  in  shecp-slvin,  in  the  form  just  stripped 
from  the  slaughtered  animal— all  pallid  widi  the 
fearful  disease  of  the  plain,  fever  and  ague,  the 
true  malaria  of  Rome.  You  see  them  crouch- 
ing down  among  their  sheep  and  pigs  in  the 
sheltered  nooks  of  brick  walls  where  the  sun 
beats  down  hottest,  in  the  hope  to  supply  in  that 
manner  the  heat  which  the  northern  breezes 
from  the  distant  mountains  carry  away,  and 
prolong  for  a  few  days  a  miserable  existence, 
which,  for  their  own  sakes,  one  would  think, 
could  not  terminate  too  soon. 

This  now  long  deserted  and  sterile  region 
was  once  thriving  and  populous,  as  we  know 
from  history,  and  as  must  be  inferred  from  the 
masses  of  ruin  which  lie  every  where  scattered 
around:  ruin  of  no  imposinij  character,  but  the 
crumbled  walls  and  foinidations  of  crowds  of 
buildings,  all  the  particular  and  intelligible  forms 
of  which  have  long  ago  disappeared.     It  was 


THE    CAMPAGNA.  5 

from  these  now  idle  and  barren  wastes  that  the 
mighty  Capital  once  drew  its  supplies  for  its 
daily  markets.  Ov^er  these  plains  was  once 
spread,  also,  a  large  proportion  of  the  five  or 
six  millions  that  once,  according  to  some, 
constituted  the  population  of  ancient  Rome, 
not  more  than  a  quarter  of  which  could  ever 
have  been  contained  within  Aurelian's  walls. 
Successive  revolutions  and  the  violences  of 
war,  at  first  compelled  the  frightened  inhabit- 
ants to  take  shelter  within  the  walls  of  the 
city,  and  then  the  lands  being  gradually  de- 
serted by  them  and  left  without  cultivation, 
the  exhalations  became  pestilential  from  damp- 
ness and  the  corruptions  of  neglected  vegeta- 
tion, and  in  no  long  time  these  plains,  once 
fruitful  as  a  garden,  became  poisonous  to  the 
constitution  and  to  the  eye,  a  spectacle  of 
mourning  and  horror.  Among  the  ruins  of 
villa,  castle  and  farm  thus  abandoned,  there 
then  lurked  in  safe  retreat  the  robber  and  the 
assassin  ;  and  from  that  day  to  this  the  passage 
of  the  Campagna  has  been  unsafe. 

But  while  to  the  south  and  west  of  the  city 


b  A.NCIKNT    UOMF,. 

the  Campagna  seems  all  dreary  and  desolate, 
and  even  to  the  eye  of  taste  there  is  no  relief,  in 
the  contrary  direction,  between  the  Sabine  and 
Alban  Hills  and  Soractc,  the  general  aspect  of 
the  snrface  is  at  least  far  more  interesting,  and 
to  the  lover  of  the  j)ictnresi}ne  even  beautiful. 
No  scene  can  be  presented  of  more  touching  and 
even  magnificent  beauty,  than  that  which  offers 
itself  as  you  leave  the  Latin  Gate  and  cast 
your  eye  toward  the  Alban  Hills,  where  you 
see  the  huge  aqueducts  of  Ancient  Rome, 
and,  chief  among  tlicin,  the  gigantic  Claudian, 
striding  across  the  plain  on  its  iimumerable 
arches  and  vanishing  in  long  perspective  lines, 
hidden,  at  length,  by  the  thick  warm  mists  of 
the  atmosphere,  or  else  intercepted  by  the 
lower  roots  of  the  mountains.  Beside  the 
Claudian  in  Home's  prosperous  days,  eight 
others  brougiit  their  rivers  of  jiurc  mountain 
water  into  the  heart  of  the  Capital  —  then  dis- 
tributed, as  now,  by  pipes  to  domestic  residen- 
ces and  public  fountains  —  any  one  of  which 
at  the  ])resent  day  were  enough  to  flood  the 
modern  city  of  nearly  two  hundred  thousand 
inh;iliilaiits. 


APPROACH    TO    THE    CFTT.  I 

When  within  a  iew  miles  of  the  Capital,  as 
you  surmount  some  of  the  higher  undulations 
of  soil,  you  catch  your  first  distinct  view  of 
a  few  of  the  more  prominent  objects  of  the  city 

—  steeples  and  towers,  and,  high  over  all, 
the  dome  and  cross  of  St.  Peter's.  Almost 
any  one  entering  Rome  from  this  direction 
will  find  himself  somewhat  disappointed  in 
the  general  aspect  of  this  remarkable  place. 
The  dome  and  enormous  mass  of  the  Vatican 
will  alone  correspond  to  the  impressions  you 
had  received  from  your  reading.  You  will 
catch  not  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  Old  Rome 

—  the  Rome  you  care  chiefly  to  see.  As 
you  move  toward  the  gates,  you  cannot  but 
remember  her  history,  running  back  to  so  re- 
mote an  anti(juity,  her  ruins  —  the  ruins  of  the 
mightiest  empire  in  tlie  world's  history  ;  yon  call 
to  mind  the  form  and  magnitude  of  the  Temple 
of  all  the  Gods,  the  Pantheon,  the  Trium- 
phant Arches,  the  Pillars  of  Trajan  and  Anto- 
nine,  and,  above  all,  the  world-renowned  Fla- 
vian, and  the  walls  of  the  city,  hoary  with  the 
rust  and  rime  of  so  many  ages — and  you  expect. 


8  ANCIENT    ROME. 

niul  naturally  enough,  as  you  approach  Rome, 
to  see  something  of  all  this.  Rut  yon  sec  noth- 
ing of  it.  Ancient  Rome  is  engulfed  and  hidden 
by  Modern  Rome,  the  Rome  of  the  Middle 
ages,  and  not  a  ruin,  not  an  object  distinctiv^e- 
ly  Roman,  appears.  You  sec,  instead,  rather  a 
bright,  smart  looking  modern  city,  with  its 
usual  assortment  of  domes  of  different  sizes  and 
forms,  and  a  variety  of  church  towers  and  stee- 
ples, and  the  roofs  and  walls  of  a  crowd  of 
nice  yellowish  houses,  and  your  disappointment 
amounts  to  vexation.  Not  a  single  sentiment 
of  childlike  reverence  for  venerable  antiquity 
is  gratified.  And  when  through  the  lofty 
gates  of  the  city  you  enter  into  the  beautiful 
but  highly  artificial  square  of  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo,  there  is  still  no  gain  in  your  impres- 
sion —  all  is  yellow,  all  is  modern. 

As  the  diligence  rolls  heavily  onward,  you 
immediately  enter  the  principal  streets  of  the 
city,  and  as  you  look  u{)  u[)on  the  street  archi- 
tecture, u])  to  buildings  six  or  seven  stories 
liigh,  dark  and  dingy,  and  manifestly  bearing 
the  marks   of  centiu'ics  u[)on   them,  you  begin 


ENTRANCE.  9 

to  understand,  in  part,  your  position,  and  are 
satisfied  that  you  have  gone  backward  as  far  at 
least  as  to  the  middle  ages.  In  a  few  moments 
more,  turning  on  the  right  hand  side  into  a 
small  square  before  the  doors  of  the  post-oflice, 
you  leave  your  carriage,  and  tliere,  in  the  centre 
of  the  square,  you  are  gratified  with  your  first 
glimpse  V  of  Old  Rome  —  you  see  before  you 
Antonine's  Column,  with  its  spiral  histories  in 
marble  relief,  now  black  with  age,  running 
from  the  base  to  the  capital.  As  you  examine 
this  venerable  and  beautiful  monument  of  two 
thousand  years,  you  feel  that  you  are  in  Rome, 
that  you  can  be  nowhere  else  ;  you  see  at  once 
by  the  damages  inflicted  by  time,  and  the 
ebony  tint  of  the  marble,  and  especially  by  the 
rounding  of  lines  that  once  were  sharp  as  the 
chisel  could  make  them,  that  less  than  two 
thousand  years  could  hardly  have  served  to 
inflict  that  sort  of  injury.  You  cannot  doubt 
that  you  see  at  length  a  specimen  of  Old  Rome. 
Whoever  shall  visit  Rome,  entering  it  by 
the  Florence  road,  or  via  Flaminia,  will  ex- 
perience many  of   the   sensations    and    disap- 


10  ANCIEXT    ROME. 

pointments  I  have  endeavored  to  describe.  He 
will  not  find  his  expectations  supported  by  the 
eirect  produced  by  any  of  the  objects  he  will 
at  first  see.  Reaching  Rome  from  Naples,  on 
tlie  east,  and  all  the  impressions  I  have  de- 
scribed would  be  reversed ;  and  it  would  be 
well  worth  while,  even  at  some  sacrifice  of 
convenience,  so  to  arrange  one's  journey  as 
to  enter  the  capital  by  the  Jerusalem  gate. 
You  then,  after  passing  the  church  of  St.  John 
Lateran,  soon  reach  the  Colosseum  and  find 
yourself  in  the  midst  of  the  most  interesting 
relics  of  the  old  city.  Your  first  impressions 
are  just  such  as  you  would  prefer. 

I  have  mentioned  Rome  in  connection  with 
the  middle  ages.  It  bears  the  marks  of  those 
ages  every  where,  in  the  churches,  palaces  and 
domestic  buildings,  which  line  all  the  streets. 
But  all  is  not  so  deeply  stained  with  the  marks 
of  those  ages  as  Florence.  Florence  is  a  pure 
specimen  of  them,  and  better  worth  exploring 
on  that  account  than  Rome.  Still  it  has  a 
deep  interest  in  that  respect  also.  No  one  can 
remembor  the  jieople  who  figured  in  Rome  at 


FIRST    MOVEMENT    ON    ARRIVING.  11 

that  time,  the   artists,  the  poets,  the   philoso- 
phers—  the  palaces  and  churches  erected  there 
and  so  lavishly  adorned,  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Pe- 
ter's and  the  Palace   of  the  Vatican  —  no  one 
can,  in  a  word,  recall  the  era  of  Leo  the  Tenth 
and  Julius  the  Second,  without  being  ready  to    \ 
bear  witness  that  it  was  a  period  in  the  history    / 
of  human  genius,  quite  worthy  of  any  of  the    i 
grandest  of  those  that  had  preceded  it  in  the 
Old  Latin  empire. 

I  have  described  to  you  the  Campagna 
and  the  entrance  into  Rome.  I  wish  now 
to  disclose  a  panoramic  view  of  all  that 
Rome  once  was  —  the  great  theatre  of  the 
voluminous  events  that  trans])ired  within  sight 
of  her  walls  —  in  order  to  correct  by  that  single 
bird's  eye  glance,  the  impression  of  disappoint- 
ment received  from  the  first  sight  of  the 
city.  As  soon  as  he  has  passed  the  gates,  let 
not  the  traveller  fail  therefore,  as  the  first 
movement  he  makes  after  his  arrival,  to  as- 
cend the  tower  upon  the  top  of  the  Capitol 
Hill,  and  with  his  map  of  Ancient  and  Modern 
Rome   spread  out  before  him,  identify  every 


12  ANCIENT    UOMK. 

spot  and  object  of  liistoric  interest  and  impor- 
tance. That  is  the  first  duty.  From  that 
point  you  are  undoubtedly  presented  Avith  an 
area  more  densely  crowded  with  the  footprints 
of  liistory,  from  the  time  Eneas  lauded  to 
that  of  Augustus,  from  that  to  the  present 
day,  than  from  any  other  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  And  not  only  that,  the  scene  beheld 
from  the  point  just  mentioned,  as  a  mere  varied 
surface  of  mountain  and  plain,  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  for  its  grandeur  and  beauty 
united  that  can  any  where  be  seen.  The 
whole  of  the  scene  together  presents  the  great- 
est unity  with  the  greatest  variety.  Here  lay 
the  city,  once,  of  one,  two,  three  millions  of 
inhabitants,  in  the  centre  of  this  vast  plain  ;  one 
city,  one  plain,  surrounded  on  the  outskirts  by 
the  Apennines,  Soracte,  and  the  Mediterranean. 
From  fifteen  to  twenty  miles  in  every  direction, 
the  early  inhabitants  could  detect  the  approach 
of  an  enemy  —  in  the  infant  days  of  the  re- 
public an  advantage  to  which  may  have  been 
owing  many  a  deliverance  and  many  a  triumph 
—  a  natural  position  of  strength,  to  which  she 


VIEW    FROM    THE     CAPITOL.  13 

must  have  been  indebted  for  her  prosperity,  al- 
most as  much  as  to  her  statesmen  and  her  gene- 
rals. But  first,  as  you  look  off  from  the  tower 
of  the  capitol,  the  eye  falls  upon  the  very  ob- 
jects directly  under  you,  for  which  you  had 
been  waiting  with  a  fever  of  impatience,  —  the 
time-worn  vestiges,  the  sublime  yet  melan- 
choly ruins  of  the  ancient  city.  At  your  feet 
you  behold  the  Forum  —  that  name  that  can 
never  be  uttered  without  emotion  —  the  re- 
maining columns  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter 
Tonans  —  the  Triumphal  Arch  of  Septimius 
almost  perfect  in  its  form,  and  bearing  to-day 
the  inscription  placed  upon  it  two  thousand 
years  ago  —  the  temple  of  the  virtuous  Anto- 
nine,  and  his  wife  the  dissolute  Faustina — the 
huge  brick  arches  of  the  Temple  of  Peace  — 
farther  on  in  the  same  direction  of  the  Sacred 
Way  the  smaller  Arch  of  Titus,  with  the  golden 
candlestick  of  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem  sculp- 
tured in  relief — and  farther  still,  where  your 
eye  of  necessity  rests,  the  Flavian  Amphithe- 
atre or  Colosseum.     On  the  right  of  that,  and  a 

little  nearer,  on    the  summit  of  the  Palatine, 

2 


14  ANCIENT    HOME. 

a  low  swell  of  ground  —  you  see  the  remains 
of  the  Palace  of  the  Casars,  then  the  Aven- 
tine  crowned  with  convents  and  churches,  the 
Tiber  llowiiig  below,  and.  cast  of  that,  the  im- 
mense remains  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla.  Then 
turning  west  and  south,  your  eye  surveys  the 
graceful  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  and  the  mag- 
nificent masses  of  the  unrivalled  Vatican. — 
These,  all  within  the  walls  of  Rome.  Then 
without,  you  contemplate  the  wide-spreading 
Campagna,  —  the  site  of  Alba  Longa,  on  the 
Alban  Hills,  the  Sabine  Hills,  the  long  ranges 
of  the  Apennines,  with  Tusculum  and  Tibur, 
and  the  ruins  of  Cicero's  and  Horace's  villas 
on  their  slopes,  —  till  the  scene  is  shut  in  by 
Monte  Mario,  a  few  miles  without  tlie  gates, 
and  the  lofty  walls  of  St.  Peter's  and  the  Ja- 
niculum.  This  brief  survey  of  the  city  from 
this  lofty  tower  of  observation,  with  your  re- 
collections in  your  head  and  your  maps  before 
you,  is  itself  worth  a  visit  to  I*iUroj)e.  Indeed, 
to  pass  a  morning  there,  simply  studying 
the  relations  in  respect  to  position  and  dis- 
tance, of  places  so  remarkable   in  Roman  his- 


THE    SEVEN    HILLS.  15 

tory  and  poetry,  is  tlic  best  commentary  pos- 
sible upon  all  yon  have  read  or  remember,  and 
leaves  impressions  on  the  mind  that  can  never 
be  effaced  —  sheds  the  light  of  day  upon  youth- 
fnl  studies  of  the  Yiri  RomaD,  Virgil,  Horace, 
Livy  ;  converts  obscurity  and  fable  into  proba- 
bility and  substantial  truth,  in  spite  of  all  the 
heresies  and  infidelities  of  Von  Niebuhr. 

A  featnre  prominent  in  the  scenery  of  Rome, 
and  no  less  so,  certainly,  in  its  history,  is  the 
Seven  Hills.  The  Capitol  Hill  —  the  highest 
point  in  Rome,  now  crowned  by  some  ex- 
tremely ugly  edifices  by  Michael  Angelo,  (but 
adorned  by  the  finest  equestrian  statue  in  the 
world,  that  of  Marcns  Aurelius.)  as  it  was 
once  by  the  most  magnificent  citadel  and 
temple  in  the  world,  covering  many  acres  — 
this  hill  retains  something  of  its  ancient  ele- 
vation, though,  by  the  crumbling  away  of  the 
summit  and  the  filling  up  at  the  base,  one  may 
easily  conjecture  it  to  have  lost  a  portion  of 
its  original  height.  On  the  eastern  side  is  the 
Tarpeian  Rock,  still  a  rock,  and  still,  notwith- 
standing all  its  losses  and  the  filling  up  below, 


10  ANCIKNT    HOME. 

retaining  height  suflicient  to  serve  its  former 
purpose  of  execution,  by  pitching  a  criminal 
from  its  highest  point.  The  far-famed  Pala- 
tine, where  the  cottage  of  Romulus  long  stood, 
and,  in  marvellous  contrast  with  it,  Nero's 
golden  house  afterwards,  and  which  the  Em- 
peror Vespasian  demolished  as  a  dwelling  too 
sumptuous  for  any  mortal,  has  lost  nearly  all 
of  its  original  elevation,  save  the  ruins  by 
wliich  it  is  covered.  As  the  palace  of  the 
Caesars  at  length  extended  over  the  whole  of 
the  hill,  covering,  I  dare  not  conjecture  how 
many  acres,  so  its  substructions  now  in  like 
manner  overspread  the  whole.  And  upon 
these  extensive  remains  of  crumbled  brick  and 
marble,  resoh^ed  in  the  process  of  ages  back 
to  its  original  earth,  stands,  as  in  mockery  of 
departed  grandeur,  an  Englishman's  villa  of 
briglit  red  brick,  witii  wooden  pinnacles  in- 
numerable of  a  color  to  match,  which,  to- 
gether with  quite  an  army  of  cypresses,  and 
another  army  of  red  wooden  or  earthen  vases 
surrounding  it,  make  it  one  of  the  most 
conspicuous,  as  at  the  same  time  one  of  the 


THE     SEVEN    HILLS.  17 

Ugliest  objects  in  the  city.  Nowliere  can  the 
stranger  turn  his  eye  for  enjoyment  or  re- 
pose within  the  walls  of  Rome,  bnt  the 
staring  hues  and  flaunting  fopperies  of  this 
gingerbread  mansion  obtrude  upon  the  sight, 
and  the  vision  that  had  begun  to  disclose 
itself  is  rudely  dissolved.  All  around  this 
wooden  palace  spread  the  gardens  of  the  es- 
tablishment, and  winding  walks  sliaded  by 
various  shrubbery  encircle  the  hill.  Even  a 
well  has  been  sunk  in  the  midst  of  these 
ruins,  and  possibly  seeks  its  waters  from  the 
boudoir  of  the  beautiful  Poppea.  In  the 
midst  of  the  garden  accidental  cavities  have 
been  occasioned  by  the  falling  in  of  buried 
walls  and  arches,  some  of  which  have  been 
explored,  and  far  below,  in  vaults  where 
the  darkness  is  so  deep  that  it  may  be  felt, 
there  have  been  discovered  richly  decorated 
apartments,  decorated  with  mosaics  and  paint- 
ings, which  have  been  denominated,  probably 
with  no  better  reason  than  that  of  fancy,  the 
Baths  of  Li  via.    Dark  cavernous  holes  still  lead 

away  to  other  hidden  regions  of  the  huge  ruin, 
2* 


18  ANCIENT    ROMF,. 

which  have  never  yet  been  explored,  but 
where,  it  is  certainly  more  than  probable,  that 
the  most  precious  relics  of  marble  or  bronze 
might  yet  be  brought  to  light. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Palatine,  extending  from 
the  Capitol  toward  the  Colosseum  north,  lay  the 
Roman  Forum  — an  oblong  scpiare,  as  the  anti- 
quarians tell  us  of  more  than  a  thousand  feet 
in  length,  by  about  eight  hundred  in  breadth. 
On  the  four  sides  of  this  small  square  once 
stood  a  crowd  of  the  noblest  public  fabrics  of 
Rome.  Temples,  basilicas,  comitia},  curia?,  all 
adorned  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner  by 
columns,  llights  of  steps,  statues  of  marble 
and  bronze,  and  by  rostra,  or  pulpits,  from 
which  the  orators  harangued  the  people  on  all 
occasions  of  great  political  excitement.  Of 
this  thrice  celebrated  place,  scarce  a  vestige 
now  remains.  A  portico  of  six  or  eight  col- 
umns of  the  Temple  of  Concord  —  the  Arch 
of  Septimius  Scverus  —  three  pillars  of  a 
Temple  of  Jupiter  —  a  portico  of  the  Tem- 
j)le  of  Antoninus  and  Faustina  —  these  are  all 
that   now    serve   to   mark  the   spot,  where,  so 


THE     SEVEN    HILLS.  19 

long,  once  dwelt  the  seat  of  that  vast  power, 
at  the  name  of  which  the  earth  trembled. 
Nowhere  else  in  Rome  docs  one  experience 
the  sensations  that  crowd  upon  the  mind,  as 
he  paces  to  and  fro  along  the  site  of  the 
Forum,  with  the  hill  of  the  Capitol  tower- 
ing above  him  —  the  remains  of  the  palace  of 
the  Cassars  clothing  the  Palatine  on  one  side  — 
and,  in  front,  the  monarch  of  ruin,  the  Flavian 
Amphitheatre  —  characteristic  funeral  monu- 
ments all,  of  the  greatest  of  earthly  empires. 

The  Aventine  —  the  most  considerable  of 
the  Seven  Hills  which  stands  directly  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  —  the  chosen  residence 
of  Remus,  as  the  Palatine  was  that  of  Romu- 
lus, is  now  covered  with  a  couple  of  convents 
and  their  enclosing  walls  and  churches,  beau- 
tifully embowered  amongst  a  variety  of  trees 
and  shrubs.  It  constitutes  one  of  the  most 
inviting  objects  in  all  Rome. 

The  Q,uirinal  is  also  a  hill,  strictly  speaking, 
or,  rather,  a  long,  elevated  slope  or  ridge,  on 
the  top  of  which  now  stands  the  very  exten- 
sive but  plain  looking  palace  of  the  present 


20  ANCIENT    ROME. 

Pope,  where  once  stood  the  Temple  of  Rom- 
uhis  Qiiiriiius,  erected  by  Numa.  This  hill  is 
now  one  of  the  most  airy  and  best  built  quar- 
ters of  the  modern  city.  It  is  adorned  in  front 
of  the  Pope's  palace  by  an  Egyptian  obelisk, 
and  by  two  colossal  Greek  statues  of  marble, 
called  Castor  and  Pollux,  each  holding  and  re- 
straining a  horse  ;  but  so  ill  proportioned  are 
they  —  the  gods  to  the  horses  —  that  they 
could  not  be  mounted  (the  horses,  I  mean,) 
without,  at  the  same  time,  being  cruslied. 

As  for  the  other  hills,  the  Viminal  and  the 
Esquiline,  they  may  be  named,  and  their  sites 
pointed  out  to  the  classical  traveller,  but  they 
cannot  be  seen.  The  Janiculum,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Tiber,  has  tlu;  honor  to  bear  upon 
its  sides  the  massive  fabric  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
the  immeasurable  palace  and  museum  of  the 
Vatican.  The  Coelian  is  made  famous  by  the 
imposing  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla. 

I  have  already  named  or  referred  to  many  of 
the  ruins  of  Rome,  but,  as  yet,  have  described 
none.  And  it  must  here  be  frankly  confessed 
that    to    not    one   of  the    remains   of  ancient 


VARIOUS    RUIXS.  21 

Rome  does  there  attach  any  tiling  magnificent 
in  its  character,  or  as  a  spectacle  any  thing  par- 
ticnlarly  interesting,  save  the  Pantheon  and 
the  Colosseum  —  and,  I  may  add,  perhaps,  the 
remaining  arches  of  the  Claudian  Aqueduct 
without  the  Avails.  The  Baths  of  Caracalla 
display  enormous  piles  of  brick  masonry, 
from  which  the  marble  coating  is  all  gone, 
but  the  objects  lack  interest,  and  the  scattered 
fragments,  arches  and  columns  of  brick,  want 
unity  and  meaning.  The  Baths  of  Diocletian 
are  as  large  ;  but  the  chief  relic  that  has  been 
preserved  is  now  converted  into  a  cliurch,  very 
vast  and  of  beautiful  form  and  proportion,  but 
retaining  no  likeness  to  its  former  self ;  and 
seen  with  its  brilliant  white  walls,  and  freshly 
carved  capitals  and  columns,  appears  like  a 
building  of  yesterday  ;  add  to  this  the  pres- 
ence of  the  monks  and  priests  at  their  various 
altars,  and  the  people  at  their  devotions,  and 
idle  strangers  loitering  about,  and  there  is  no 
single  object  to  suggest  any  thing  either  an- 
cient or  Roman.  The  iew  groups  of  columns 
in  the  Forum,  the  broken  arclies  of  the  Tern- 


Si  ANCIENT    ROME. 

plc  of  Peace,  or  of  Vespasian,  as  others  think, 
the  triumphal  arches  of  Constantino,  Titus, 
Severus,  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus,  the 
Theatre  of  Marcellus,  are  all  nothing  in  the 
description,  and  not  much  to  the  observer  on 
the  spot  —  nothing  as  a  mere  spectacle  —  unless 
he  is  of  that  enthusiastic  temperament  that  tlie 
first  sight  of  a  Roman  brick,  which  was  laid 
by  Roman  brick-layers  in  the  best  days  of  the 
republic  or  the  grandest  of  the  empire,  can  in- 
spire him  with  an  ode  or  a  monologue.  They 
wild  have  much  less  of  tjiis  temper,  but  still 
something  of  it,  can  linger  about  the  objects  I 
have  just  named  and  a  hundred  others,  and. 
especially  ramble  about  and  among  the  ruins 
of  the  Palatine,  or  those  of  Hadrian's  Villa,  at 
Tivoli.  and  never  weary  of  pleasure  —  such 
a  fascination  is  there  in  the  presence  of  the 
identical  forms  which  were  once  gazed  upon 
by  the  eyes  of  so  remarkable  a  people,  have 
endured  throughout  so  many  revolutions,  sur- 
vived the  desolation  of  fires  that  once  and 
again  devastated  vast  portions  of  the  city,  and 

wuhstood  the  rude  assaults  of  so  many  centu- 
ries. 


THE     COLOSSEUM.  23 

The  only  moniinicnt,  perhaps,  Avhich  is  at 
once  in  its  grandeur  worthy  of  the  Roman 
name  and  power,  and,  in  itself,  an  object  of 
unrivalled  sublimity,  is  the  Colosseum.  Be- 
fore that,  one  may  well  pause  with  astonish- 
ment. Be  he  enthusiast  or  not,  be  he  antiqua- 
rian or  poet,  or  thoughtless  traveller,  it  will 
make  no  difference,  his  steps  will  be  arrested, 
and  he  will  pause  with  astonishment.  Ruined 
and  maimed  as  it  is  by  the  remorseless  tooth  of 
Time,  but  a  hundred  times  more  so  by  the  mean 
and  dastardly  spirit  of  the  popes  and  princes 
of  the  middle  ages,  who,  without  reverence 
for  genius  or  consummate  beauty,  or  the  mem- 
ory of  the  mightiest  people  that  ever  ruled  the 
earth,  with  no  sentiment  or  aim  apparently 
which  sprung  not  from  a  coarse  lust  of  mise- 
rable profit,  —  ruined  and  maimed  as  it  is  and 
spoiled  of  its  just  proportions,  it  is,  in  spite  of 
all  its  injuries  and  losses,  in  spite  of  all  that 
Heaven  has  done  by  the  storms  of  two  thou- 
sand years  that  have  beaten  down  upon  it,  and 
in  spite  of  all  that  man  has  done  by  his  armies 
of  Yandal  workmen,  who  have  mined  its  walls, 


24  ANCIENT    ROME. 

and  constructed  palace  after  palace  out  of  the 
stones  that  have  thus  been  toppled  down  and 
borne  away  —  it  is.  in  spite  of  all  this  hard 
fortune,  the  most  eloquent  and  instructive,  the 
most  beautiful,  the  grandest  monument  which 
the  past  has  bequeathed  to  the  present,  which 
the  majesty  of  Rome  has  offered  to  her  de- 
scendants, or  to  the  curiosity,  admiration,  and 
wonder  of  mankind. 

Nearly  one  half  of  the  vast  oval  retains  still 
its  original  height,  towering  upwards  to  an 
elevation  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet,  higher 
tlian  the  steeples  of  most  churches.  Within, 
with  the  exception  of  the  two  outermost 
ranges  of  arches,  it  is,  though,  in  parts,  mucii 
crumbled  away,  and  in  many  parts  broken  in 
where  the  sup])orting  arches  have  fallen,  so 
far  complete  in  the  general  form  and  de- 
sign, that  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  arena 
one  can  obtain  a  pretty  correct  idea  of  its  con- 
struction, and  see  at  once  what  the  effect  must 
have  been  when  the  seats  were  crowded  with 
a  hundred  thousand  human  beings,  comprising 
the  beauty,  rank,  fashitm,  and  power  of  Rome. 


THE    COLOSSEUM.  CO 

At  the  time  of  its  dedication,  under  Titus, 
which  lasted  for  one  hundred  days,  ten  thou- 
sand wild  beasts  from  Africa  were  slain  there, 
and  gladiators  and  captives  without  number. 

But  though  the  walls  on  which  were  planted 
the  seats  still  retain  their  places,  and  there  is 
still  quite  distinctly  to  be  discerned  the  gradual 
slope  from  the  centre  to  the  summit  of  the  out- 
ermost range  of  arches,  all  is,  as  I  have  said, 
in  a  miserably  dilapidated  state,  and  in  truth 
appears  to  the  careless  observer  but  one  wild 
ruin,  heavily  overgrown  with  grasses,  wild 
flowers,  shrubs,  and  almost  trees,  springing  up 
every  where  from  out  the  yawning  crevices, 
trailing  down  the  outside  walls,  creeping  up 
the  broken  arclies,  and  displaying  as  rich  a 
scene  of  varied  vegetation  as  could  be  found 
on  any  mountain-side  in  Italy.  Naturalists 
have  enumerated  nearly  three  hundred  plants 
of  different  orders,  which  contribute  to  deck 
the  ruins  of  this  vast  pile.*  When  one  sur- 
veys this  wide  scene  of  destruction,  once,  in 


*  Prof.  Sebastiani  describes  26U  species,  according  to  Murray, 
in  the  "  Flora  Colossca." 
3 


26  ANCIENT    ROME. 

the  palmiest  days  of  tlic  empire,  the  great  cen- 
tre of  elegance  and  wealth,  now  a  wonder  by 
day,  and  a  horror  by  night,  he  is  apt  to  lament 
the  desolation  tliat  has  overtaken  it.  and  regret 
that  a  strnctnre  which  in  its  design  displayed 
so  much  science,  and  in  its  decoration  such 
consummate  taste,  and  on  which  had  been 
lavished  a  mine  of  wealth,  should  have  fallen 
step  by  step  into  so  irretrievable  a  decay,  so 
that  to  restore  and  rebuild,  even  if  now  it 
could  be  applied  to  any  useful  purpose,  would 
almost  surpass  the  means  of  a  modern  empire, 
certainly  of  any  Italian  empire.  We  condemn, 
indeed,  the  sports  of  crime  and  blood  in  which 
the  multitudes  of  Rome  indulged,  and  for  which 
this  theatre  was  erected  —  especially  does  the 
Christian  look  with  horror  upon  the  wanton 
slaughter  of  the  crowds  of  martyrs,  who,  from 
the  reign  of  Titus  to  that  of  Constantine, 
poured  out  their  blood  to  gratify  the  cruel 
nature  of  a  proud  and  luxurious  capital.  But 
wliile  we  condemn  the  savage  deeds  that  were 
enacted  within  those  walls,  we  would  not  raze 
the  walls  within  which  they  were  committed, 
as  if  they  were  the  guilty  party  ;    we  would 


THE    COLOSSEUM.  27 

not  impute  moral  guilt  to  brick  and  stone,  and 
punish  them  for  crimes  M^hich  could  be  expi- 
ated only  by  some  grand  revolution  in  the 
character  of  the  Roman  people.  Gold  may  be 
abused  to  riotous  excess,  and  may  be  held  as 
the  root  of  all  evil ;  but  still  one  would  not 
cast  it  into  the  sea.  And  art  has  sometimes 
ministered  to  the  worst  passioi]s,  but  we 
would  not  turn  iconoclasts  for  that,  and  doom 
the  treasures  of  the  Vatican  to  the  flames.  It 
was  a  virtuous  and  indignant  zeal  against  the 
vices  and  crimes  of  Paganism,  of  which  the 
Flavian  was  the  grand  scene  for  their  display, 
if  extravagant  and  ill  judged,  which  impelled 
the  early  Christians  first  to  neglect,  and  then, 
in  a  spirit  of  revenge,  to  dismantle  and  demol- 
ish its  walls.  And  it  was  the  true  view  to  be 
taken  of  the  subject,  and  which  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  express,  which  at  length  induced  Pope 
Benedict  the  Fourteenth,  in  order  to  save  what 
was  left  of  this  remarkable  structure,  to  erect 
on  the  centre  of  tlie  blood-stained  arena  the 
Christian  cross,  and  consecrate  as  a  church  a 
theatre,  the  soil  of  which  had  drank  the  blood 


28  AN'CIF.NT    ROME. 

of  SO  mmiy  witnesses  of  the  truth.  It  was  a 
happy  thought  of  the  venerable  Pontiff;  and 
no  other  power  tlian  that  of  religion,  proba- 
bly, would  have  succeeded  in  arresting  in  their 
selfish  course,  the  princely  and  pious  robbers 
who  were  rapidly  bringing  it  to  the  ground. 

The  traveller  of  the  present  day,  who,  for 
the  first  time,  bends  his  steps  toward  the  Co- 
losseum at  the  hour  of  twilight,  as  soon  as 
he  has  approached  near  enough  to  catch  the 
grand  outlines  of  the  building,  with  its  innu- 
merable arches  vanishing  in  the  perspective, 
and  pauses  in  silent  contemplation,  is  often 
arrested  and  surprised  at  that  time  and  place, 
by  the  voices  of  a  choir  chanting  the  usual 
evening  hymn  of  the  Virgin,  the  soft  har- 
mony of  that  always  affecting  music  rever- 
berating and  dying  away  among  the  ruins. 
Penetrating  the  avenues  which  conduct  to  the 
centre,  he  finds  that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a 
Christian  church  of  worshippers,  and  that  the 
usual  rites  of  the  Catholic  service  are  perform- 
ing. His  first  emotion  is  to  kneel  and  join 
them  in  their  rites;  and  though  his  Protestant- 


THE    COLOSSEUM.  29 

ism,  on  a  further  thought,  forbids  a  formal  par- 
ticipation, yet  it  does  not  prevent  his  joining 
in  that  inward  worship,  irresistibly  prompted 
by  the  hour  and  the  scene.  Yet  as  soon  as 
his  first  enthusiasm  is  satisfied,  he  is  then  pos- 
sibly offended  at  what  may  strike  his  a3stlietic 
proprieties  as  an  impertinent  interference  in  a 
scene  which  should  be  sacred,  as  he  may 
think,  to  the  recollections  of  the  scholar.  He 
wishes  a  quiet  hour  to  recall  a  vision  of  the 
long  past,  undisturbed  by  the  intervention  of 
sights  and  sounds  that  breathe  only  of  to-day, 
and  of  a  religion,  which,  when  this  Theatre 
was  first  ppened,  its  existence,  even,  Avas 
scarcely  acknowledged.  Bnt  then,  once  more, 
he  checks  himself  as  he  reflects,  that  it  is  to 
this  then  new  and  unacknowledged  religion, 
to  the  very  sounds  he  has  just  heard  of 
prayer  and  praise,  elevating  and  humanizing 
the  general  heart,  that  the  curious  traveller  of 
the  nineteenth  century  is  permitted  to  behold 
it  at  all ;  and  he  desires  once  more  to  feel  and 
to  express  all  due  gratitude  to  the  memory  of 
Pope  Benedict  the  Fourteenth. 


30  ANCIENT    ROMK. 

Witli  the  single  exception  of  the  Colosseum 
and  its  immediate  neighborhood,  the  traveller 
does  not  find  what  his  imagination  had  led 
him  to  expect  as  the  chief  pleasure  in  visiting 
Rome,  —  a  profusion,  namely,  of  tlic  ruins  of 
the  old  city,  every  where  scattered  about 
within  the  walls  and  in  the  suburbs,  and 
every  where  easily  accessible.  The  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Colosseum  and  the  Forum 
is  the  only  spot  in  Rome  where  ruin  makes 
the  predominant  impression — where  you 
would  believe  yourself  to  be  in  Ancient  Rome. 
If  at  home  you  should  turn  over  the  massive 
pages  of  Piranesij  or  any  other  volume  descrip- 
tive of  the  ruins  of  Rome,  you  would  suppose 
that  if  then  you  should  visit  the  realities  you 
had  before  contemplated  in  engravings,  you 
would  be  able  to  see  them  in  as  free  and  un- 
obstructed a  manner  as  you  had  before  in  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  the  illustrated  volumes. 
But  great  would  be  your  mistake.  What  is 
so  visible  in  the  book  at  home,  is  invisible 
when  abroad  among  the  objects  themselves. 
It  misht  Iiave  been  a  childish   thousrht  that 


DIFFICULTIES    OF    ACCESS    TO    THE    RUINS.       31 

a  wild  and  impressive  scene  of  devastation 
would  every  where  meet  the  eye,  and  that  to 
wander  at  large  among  the  outskirts  of  the 
modern  town,  would  be  an  obvious  and  easy 
method  of  obtaining  at  once  instruction  and 
delight  in  the  classic  and  antiquarian  field. 
But,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  Colosse- 
um and  its  immediate  environs,  there  is  no  such 
scene  —  no  such  objects  are  to  be  met  with. 
Nothing  stands  abroad  and  open  to  the  sight. 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  walls,  all  is 
either  modern  structure,  or,  where  the  houses 
end,  in  their  place  lofty  brick  walls  begin ; 
and  your  search  after  ruins  ends,  whichever 
way  you  turn,  in  a  wearisome  tour  between 
everlasting  brick  walls  from  six  to  ten  feet 
high,  —  those  impenetrable  walls  for  your 
prospect  on  either  side,  and  the  sky,  with 
now  and  then  a  tree-top,  overhead.  If  on  your 
road  there  are  the  remains  of  baths,  temples, 
palaces,  or  other  curious  remnants  of  the  an- 
cient capital,  they  are  not  to  be  seen  in  that 
manner.  If  seen  at  all,  it  can  only  be  by  ap- 
plication by  stone  or  bell  to  some  well  secured 


32  ANCIENT    ROME. 

gate  of  villa,  farm,  or  convent;  and  after  rous- 
ing thereby  some  custode  or  some  monk  from 
his  labors  or  his  slumbers.  All  such  objects 
are  now  })rivate  property  within  the  grounds 
of  rich  landholders,  or  pnblic  institutions,  and 
are  to  be  seen  —  which  certainly  is  fair 
enough  — only  by  the  payment  of  a  fee.  My 
first  walk  in  Rome  was  a  long  one  of  three 
or  four  miles,  in  a  fruitless  search  after  the 
ruins  of  Rome,  but  found  nothing,  save  the 
modern  streets,  and  the  garden  and  convent 
walls,  with  the  sky  above.  This,  the  traveller 
will  say,  is  all  wrong.  There  should  be  no 
private  owning  of  the  ruins  of  Rome,  any 
more  than  of  mines  of  gold.  They  should 
be  left  the  common  possession  of  mankind. 

The  Pantheon,  built  by  Agrippa  and  pre- 
sented by  him  to  Augustus,  happily,  like  the 
Colosseum,  stands  open  and  free  to  all.  This 
IxNiutiful  object,  so  well  preserved  as  to  make 
one  doul)l  whether  it  be  a  church  of  the  middle 
ages,  or  a  building  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred 
years  older,  is  in  the  heart  of  the  modern 
town,  covering  one  side  of  a  small  square,  ac- 


THE    PANTHEON.  33 

cessible  as  a  modern  church,  which  indeed  it 
is,  if  the  solecism  may  be  allowed.  Upon  a 
careless  inspection  of  it  yon  will  observe,  that, 
though  time  seems  hardly  to  have  made  any 
impression  upon  it,  and  its  general  form  re- 
mains complete,  yet  as  you  examine  it  from  a 
southwestern  point  of  view,  and  turn  your 
eye  to  the  summit  of  the  huge  circle  from 
which  the  dome  springs,  you  will  at  once  per- 
ceive that  fires  as  of  a  furnace  have  raged 
around  and  over  it,  burning  away  all  the  pro- 
jecting members  of  the  cornice  of  the  main 
building  and  of  the  portico,  and  eating  their 
way  into  the  very  substance  of  the  walls. 
Walls  less  substantial  than  those  of  the  Pan- 
theon—  some  twenty  feet  thick  —  could  hardly 
have  stood  under  the  fiery  deluge  of  three 
days'  duration,  in  tlie  time  of  Nero,  and  its 
frequent  repetition  since,  especially  in  the  days 
of  the  Gothic  invasions,  and  from  that  day  to 
tliis.  The  building  looks  as  if  it  had  suffered  ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  as  if  it  could  not  be  de- 
stroyed, or  by  any  power  less  than  that  of  an 
earthquake. 


34  ANXIENT    ROME. 

This  f;imons  Tomplo  deserves  nttontion.  and 
possesses  an  interest  beyond  any  thing  con- 
nected witli  its  mere  architectural  perfection. 
It  is  interesting  beyond  any  other  building  in 
Rome  for  this  especially,  that  though  older 
than  the  Colosseum,  and  than  almost  any  other 
building  whose  fragments  are  scattered  around, 
it  is  itself  not  a  ruin,  but  a  structure  almost 
untouched  by  time,  which  looks  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  very  much  as  it  did  in  the  first, 
both  without  and  within.  Emperors,  consuls, 
and  scholars,  and  the  crowds  of  Rome  who 
entered  it  then,  or  ]ias?ed  it  by  in  admiring 
delight  —  our  eyes  of  to-day  rest  upon  the 
same  forms  and  with  the  same  delight.  Much, 
indeed,  of  what  made  it  attractive  then  is  now 
gone.  The  polished  niaibles  tliat  sheathed  all 
the  exterior  have  been  stripped  bare  to  the 
brick.  The  plates  of  brass  and  of  silver  that 
once  sheeted  the  dome  and  the  portico  have 
been  wrenched  from  their  fastenings,  and  re- 
moved to  adorn  other  fabrics  ;  the  thousand 
statues  of  brass  \vhich  decorated  the  vast  cir- 
cumference of  the  cornice,  the  roof  and  beams  of 


THE    PANTHEON.  35 

brass  from  the  portico,  the  brazen  gates  of 
entrance,  these  also,  stolen  by  a  Christian  Pope 
from  this  pagan  temple,  now  decorate  St.  Peter's 
in  that  absurd  mountain  of  brass,  the  Balda- 
chino,  and  defend  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  in 
their  batteries  of  brazen  cannon.  These,  mere 
ornaments  to  the  general  form  of  the  edifice, 
are  by  the  robberies  of  emperors,  Goths,  and 
popes,  all  gone  ;  and  the  morning  and  even- 
ing sun  of  Rome  no  longer  strikes  upon  a 
scene  of  architectural  pomp,  which  must,  we 
might  think,  have  not  only  dazzled  but  awed 
into  reverence  the  barbarians  who,  for  the  first 
time,  approached  in  order  to  dismantle  it. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  all  is  not  gone  in  this,  the 
two  thousandth  year  from  its  building.  Stand- 
ing on  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  square, 
and  the  graceful  sweep  of  all  the  principal 
lines  pleases  the  eye  of  to-day  as  it  did  that  of 
antiquity.  The  double  colonnade  of  the  unri- 
valled portico  still  stands,  and  still  looks  as  it  did 
the  day  when  the  Emperor  of  all  the  world  came 
to  inspect  and  accept  the  gift  of  his  illustrious 
subject.      Height,   breadth,   form,    proportion. 


36  ANCIKNT    nOMK. 

mass,  —  lime,  more  merciful  than  man,  has 
spared,  and  from  the  point  just  named,  Agrippa 
himself,  entering  the  square  and  turning  his  eye 
upon  it,  might  only  start  with  surprise  at  miss- 
ing the  statues,  and  the  glitter  of  the  brazen 
roofs. 

Still  more  is  the  satisfaction  on  passing  be- 
neath the  portico  and  entering  the  Temple, 
where  every  essential  feature  of  the  interior 
remains  unchanged.  The  noble  swell  of  the 
dome,  with  its  circular  opening  at  the  top  (its 
only  light)  with  its  bold  and  beautiful  gradu- 
ated panelling,  stripped  indeed  of  its  bronze  — 
the  running  entablature  below  —  the  niches 
for  the  statues  of  the  twelve  greater  gods,  filled 
now,  instead,  with  the  forms  of  venerable 
saints,  and  even  the  original  mosaic  pavement 
of  the  floor  —  all  this  still  remains  to  show  ns 
almost  the  only  existing  Roman  interior  — 
certainly  the  only  one  of  that  magnificence  to 
have  fastened  upon  it  the  admiration  of  those 
early  centuries,  as  it  does  otu*  admiration  and 
interest  now. 

Ojie  cannot  enter  sucii  a  structure  with  such 


THE    PANTHEON.  37 

a  history  attached  to  it  without  emotion.  He 
may  think  as  he  may  of  the  bloody  and  savage 
Roman  people,  of  their  lust  of  conquest,  of 
their  cruelty  which  delighted  in  the  slaughter 
of  animals,  and  yet  more  of  men,  of  their  vices 
which  shock  the  imagination  —  yet  he  cannot 
forget  tliat  with  much  that  was  detestable  in 
the  Roman  character  and  life,  there  was  much 
that  was  refined,  and  more  that  was  magnifi- 
cent ;  that,  Christianity  notwithstanding,  the 
reader  of  history  can  hardly  point  to  a  period 
of  more  grateful,  undisturbed  repose,  than  that 
which  occurred  between  the  accession  of  Trajan 
and  the  death  of  the  second  Anton ine  ;  that 
if  Rome  conquered  the  earth,  one  state  after 
another,  it  then  united  them,  otherwise  at 
ceaseless  war  with  each  other,  beneath  one 
strong  and  stable  government ;  and  that  such 
union  is  a  source  of  security  and  peace,  on 
the  whole,  however  it  may  be  brought  about, 
as  the  disunion  of  the  Italian  states  throughout 
the  middle  ages  abundantly  testifies,  and  our 
disunion  would,  were  the  golden  band  once 
broken  that  now  holds  the  states  together  ;  we 


38  ANCIKNT    ROME. 

cannot  forget  that  witli  all  the  evil  Rome 
originated  and  transmitted,  it  has  left  among 
other  goods  the  rich  legacy  of  her  literature 
and  her  arts  —  some  expiation  at  least  for  her 
aggressions,  cruelties,  vices  and  crimes  ;  he  can- 
not, he  ought  not  to  forget  these  things,  as  he 
crosses  the  threshold  of  the  Pantheon,  and  he 
will  then  enter  beneath  the  grand  dome  of  the 
temple  of  that  old  religion,  and  feel  the  genius 
of  the  place  ;  and  it  will  not  be,  it  ought  not 
to  be  one  in  hostility  with  the  wide  charity 
of  the  Christian  heart;  for  if  Rome  was  not 
Christian,  it  certainly  rose,  flourished,  as  it  per- 
ished beneath  the  universal  providence  of  God. 
And  even  vice  itself,  if  it  be  not  Christian,  is 
providential,  and  to  be  treated  with  forbear- 
ance and  commiseration,  never  with  intole- 
rance and  revenge. 

Nowhere  does  melancholy,  yet  a  pleasing 
melancholy,  so  ojipress  the  mind  as  in  Rome. 
You  feel  there  always  as  if  wandering  among 
funeral  monuments  —  the  monuments  of  a  fallen 
empire  —  and  the  greatest  of  empires  —  of  an 


THE    PANTHKON.  39 

empire,  however,  whose  most  durable  monu- 
ments are  not  the  few  vestiges  of  structures, 
magnificent  as  they  are  and  imperishable  as 
they  seem,  of  which  I  have  aimed  to  give 
some  account,  but  much  more  in  the  literature 
which  her  genius  has  becjueathed  ;  and,  more 
still  in  her  language,  wrought  in  the  process 
of  ages,  into  the  substance  of  every  living 
tongue  ill  Europe.  Those  are  monuments  of 
her  former  greatness,  evidences  of  her  universal 
sovereignty  greater  than  any  other.  Marble 
and  brass  may  perish  with  time  ;  but  a  flavor 
of  the  ancient  Roman  speech,  we  may  reason- 
ably believe,  will  hang  about  human  language 
while  any  remnant  of  mankind  shall  survive 
to  use  it. 


ST.   PETER'S   AND   THE  VATICAN. 


ST.  PETER'S  AND  THE  VATICAN. 


We  turn  from  ancient  Rome  to  modern  ; 
from  the  most  magnificent  relics  of  the  old 
world  to  the  sublimest  structure  of  the  pres- 
ent time  ;  —  from  crumbling  ruins  to  a  temple 
glittering  with  marbles  and  gold,  and  fresh  as 
if  just  from  the  hands  of  the  builder  ;  from 
the  Colosseum  to  St.  Peter's.  One  may  al- 
most say  that  these  two  words  —  the  Colos- 
seum and  St.  Peter's  —  describe  Rome,  ancient 
and  modern  ;  at  all  events,  they  are  the  most 
comprehensive  and  significant  ones,  whatever 
may  be  embraced  by  others.  And  first,  of  St. 
Peter's. 

There  are  some  general  criticisms  on  this 
famous  cathedral,  in  which  almost  all  writers 
and  travellers  agree.     They  are  disappointed 


44  ST.     IKTF.k's    and    the    VATICAN. 

in  the  grand  front  as  it  is  approached  :  ihey 
are  disappointed  in  llie  apparent  height  of  the 
dome  within;  they  are  disappointed  altogether 
in  an  apparent  want  of  size  on  entering  and 
surveying  it,  which  is  attributed,  and.  per- 
haps justly,  to  the  harmony  of  its  forms  and 
the  perfection  of  its  proportions. 

As  to  the  exterior  in  front,  there  are  none,  I 
suppose,  who  would  defend  it  as  a  satisfactory 
or  beautiful  object.  It  looks  well  only  at  a 
distance  —  the  farther  the  better,  so  that  you 
can  see  it  at  all.  The  dome,  indeed,  is,  taken 
by  itself,  beautiful,  when  you  have  retreated 
to  such  a  point  that  you  can  embrace  the 
whole  in  a  single  view,  and  your  eye  can 
reach  from  the  ball  to  the  roots  of  the  circle 
of  coupled  columns  which  surround  it  ;  for 
which  purpose  you  must  see  it  from  some  ele- 
vated station  without  the  walls,  as  the  Bor- 
ghese  Villa,  or  from  some  such  position  within, 
as  the  top  of  the  l^iiician  Hill.  Seen  thus,  it 
is  an  eminently  beautiful  object;  the  curves 
of  the  lines  that  form  it  could  hardly  be  of 
a  more  graceful   inclination.     But  the  build- 


ST.   Peter's.  45 

ing  on  which  it  rests  is  then  confounded  with 
the  quadrangles  of  the  Vatican  and  other  lofty 
buildings  of  the  city,  and  cannot  be  easily  dis- 
tinguished from  them.  Seen  nearer,  for  in- 
stance at  the  opening  of  the  piazza  or  square 
before  the  church,  and  the  dome  almost  wholly 
disappears,  concealed  by  the  longer  arm  of  the 
cross ;  and  the  loss  of  the  dome  from  the  pros- 
pect is  the  loss  of  almost  the  whole.  With- 
out it,  St.  Peter's  no  longer  seems  St.  Peter's. 
Then  for  the  rest,  the  facade,  the  colonnades, 
the  porticos,  or  galleries,  as  they  are  named, 
there  is  undoubtedly  the  grand  effect  of  vast- 
ness,  seen  all  together  in  front,  but  the  eye  is 
not,  nevertheless,  very  much  pleased  or  satis- 
fied. There  is  too  much  that  is  objectionable 
in  the  parts,  to  make  the  whole  a  very  agree- 
able object. 

The  semicircular  colonnades,  taken  by 
themselves,  so  extensive,  of  so  many  massive 
columns,  produce  an  effect  of  grandeur  ;  they 
constitute,  I  suspect,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
impressive  section  of  the  building.  But  in 
their  purpose   and  design,  especially   in  their 


IC)  ST.     PKTF.k's     ANT)    TIIF.     VATICAN. 

connection  willi.  ami  in  their  relation  to,  the 
church  itselt',  they  are  but  an  absurd  and  ugly 
excrescence.  They  are  a  childish  conception, 
like  almost  all  else  of  Bernini's.  His  statues 
are  all  foolish  ;  particularly  those  which  dis- 
figure the  Bridge  of  St.  xingelo,  and  which 
almost  belong  to  St.  Peter's  ;  and  these  colon- 
nades are  so.  Bring  it  to  the  test  of  an  imagi- 
nary experiment.  If  a  gentleman  were  to 
build  such  a  front  court  or  yard  to  his  dwell- 
ing-house, every  one  would  exclaim  against  it 
as  a  folly,  and  a  very  ugly  one.  It  would  not 
be  endured.  But,  you  ask,  why  are  not  these 
colonnades  beautiful  ?  It  is  sometimes  hard  to 
give  a  satisfactory  reason  for  a  judgment,  while 
of  the  soundness  of  the  judgment  itself  you 
still  camiot  have  the  slightest  misgiving  or 
doubt.  And  especially  in  the  arts  does  the 
reason  of  a  thing  often  resolve  itself  into  a 
mere  matter  of  feeling  and  taste,  about  which 
there  can  be  oidy  dispute.  And  in  the  pres- 
ent instance,  I  can  only  say,  that  there  is  a 
dignity  and  grandeur  in  straight  parallel  lines 
in    architecture,    which    are    lost    in   winding, 


ST.     PKTER's THE    EXTERIOR.  47 

twisted,  circular  forms.  Suppose  these  colon- 
nades, instead  of  being  semicircular,  were 
spiral !  It  would  be  a  laughable  absurdity  at 
once.  But  the  spiral  would  only  be  doubling 
the  present  absurdity. 

Then  in  addition  to  this,  the  galleries  spread- 
ing out  on  either  side  from  the  main  building 
at  an  obtuse  angle,  contradicting  all  the  es- 
tablished principles — usages,  at  any  rate  of 
architecture  —  for,  it  may  well  be  doubted  if 
another  example  could  be  found  in  all  Europe, 
of  such  a  departure  from  customary  rules 
in  a  building  of  any  importance,  —  tliis  of- 
fends every  eye,  and  in  a  way  not  to  be 
appeased,  whenever  any  part  of  the  front 
comes  into  sight.  Nothing  could  be  a  greater 
deformity.  Altogether,  —  colonnades,  galleries 
and  facade,  —  it  can  remind  one  only  of  the 
fancy  structures  which  children  erect  out  of 
their  wooden  blocks.  First,  the  main  build- 
ing, standing  as  it  should  on  a  straight  line  — 
then  the  galleries  starting  off  from  it  at  an 
obtuse  angle — then,  lastly,  the  semicircular 
colonnades  joined  on  at  the  end  of  that.     You 


48  ST.     I'ETEKS    AND    THE    VATICAN. 

have  only,  I  think,  to  look  at  any  engravmg 
of  this  great  temple,  where  all  the  forms  are 
gathered  together  into  a  small  and  manageable 
compass  for  the  eye,  to  arrive  at  a  similar  judg- 
ment. The  colonnades  are,  I  believe,  gene- 
rally styled  beautiful,  and  one  of  the  great 
works  of  Bernini;  and  judged  by  themselves, 
and  standing  insulated  from  all  other  objects, 
they  are  undoubtedly  beautiful.  It  is  only  in 
their  connection  with  the  church,  that  they 
lose  tiieir  propriety,  dignity  and  grace. 

The  grand  facade  of  the  church  is  also  desn 
titute  of  beauty.  It  is  heavy  and  clumsy  in 
the  extreme  ;  and  besides  its  general  want  of 
architectural  beauty,  another  objection  which  is 
felt  at  once  is,  its  not  appearing  to  be  what  it  is, 
the  front,  namely,  of  a  chnrcii.  Every  building 
should  define  itself  in  its  form.  A  church 
should  have  that  about  it  in  its  form  which 
should  suggest  the  idea  of  a  church ;  a  palace 
the  idea  of  a  palace  ;  a  prison  that  of  a  prison, 
and  so  on.  Such  fitness,  at  any  rate,  if  not 
necessarily  a  grace,  is  certainly  a  convenience. 
St.  Peter's  has  in  front  the  architecture  of  one  of 


ST.   Peter's  —  the   exterior.  40 

Palladio's  larger  palaces,  rather  tlian  tliat  oi'  a 
church;  and,  but  for  its  vast  dimensions,  one 
might  drive  up  to  the  great  door  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and  ask  to  see  the  prince,  or  duke,  so 
and  so. 

If  a  stranger  should,  for  the  first  time,  come 
in  sight  only  of  a  portion  of  the  front  of  St. 
Peter's  —  if  he  tliought  it  to  be  St.  Peter's  — 
he  certainly  would  not  suppose  it  to  be  the 
front,  but  certainly  some  section  of  the  side 
or  rear.  That  was  precisely  my  own  experi- 
ence. I  happened  to  see  a  large  part  of  the 
front  of  the  church,  over  the  houses  in  the 
streets  in  that  neighborliood,  without  any  part 
of  the  colonnades  or  galleries  coming  into  view 
at  the  same  time,  and  I  supposed,  in  all  trutii 
and  sincerity,  that  I  was  looking  upon  the 
back  of  the  building;  and  my  surprise  was 
never  greater,  than  when  a  few  stej^s  farther 
on  placed  me  in  full  view  of  the  coloimades, 
galleries,  fountains,  and  the  entire  front. 

But  as  soon  as  one  approaches  nearer,  near 
enough  to  catch  a  fuller  view,  to  see  not  only 
a  portion  of  the  front,  but   the    whole  of  the 


50  ST.     I'ETKKS    ANU    THE    VATICAN. 

piazza  or  square  of  the  church,  with  the  vast 
sweep  of  the  semicircular  colonnades  on  either 
side,  embraciuG;  the  obelisk  in  the  centre,  and 
the  graceful  fountains  between  the  obelisk  and 
the  cobumadcs,  he  will  confess  that,  whether 
he  is  looking  upon  the  front  itself  or  not,  he 
is  enjoying  one  of  the  most  remarkable  dis- 
plays of  architecture  in  the  world.  He  may 
enjoy  the  scene  intensely,  as  one,  on  the  whole, 
of  great  grandeur,  without  rcnoinicing  his  judg- 
ment, which  compels  him  to  condemn  particular 
parts,  in  their  relation  to  each  otlier  and  to  the 
whole,  and  denies  their  fitness  and  their  beauty. 
One  observation  here  may  be  of  some  imj)or- 
tance  — that  the  vastness  of  the  scale  on  which 
this  temple  is  built  has  a  tendency  to  mislead 
the  judgment,  and  deprive  it  of  a  wisdom  and 
courage  it  otherwise  might  possess.  This 
vastness  compels  many  a  one  to  admire  and 
praise  against  his  better  mind.  But  let  us  here 
leave  the  critical,  and  surrender  ourselves  to 
the  beaiiliful. 

Tiie    first   entirely   satisfactory   impression, 
tlii.Mi    of  magnificence,  on  visiting   St.  Peter's, 


ST.   Peter's  —  the  exterior.  51 

is  derived,  mainly,  not  from  the  contemjJation 
of  the  church  itself,  but  of  its  accessories  — 
the  mere  carriage-way,  or  colonnades,  of  which 
complaint  has  just  been  made,  which  winds 
along  from  the  opening  of  the  square  to  the 
galleries  —  which  then  connect  it  with  the 
church — consisting  of  nearly  three  hundred 
stone  colunnis  of  travertine  of  immense  size, 
in  four  parallel  ranges,  and,  together  with  the 
entablature  and  pediment  reaching  a  height  of 
seventy  feet,  each  pillar  \vhich  fronts  the 
square  being  surmounted  by  a  colossal  statue 
of  stone,  of  eleven  feet.  All  this  is  very 
striking,  —  very  noble.  Yet  when  you  have 
paced  the  length  of  this  lofty  portico,  through 
this  forest  of  massive  columns,  and  reached 
the  church  itself,  this  great  height  of  seventy 
feet  absolutely  vanishes  under  the  towering 
elevation  of  the  four  hundred  feet  above.  This 
gives  one  an  idea  of  the  style  and  scale  of  this 
enormous  structure.  To  observe  that  as  a 
mere  carriage  entrance-way,  a  mere  vulgar  pro- 
vision of  conveniency,  a  mere  shelter  from  the 
rain  and  defence  from  the  sun,  that  popes  and 


^2.  ST.     PF.TF.U  S     ANO    THE    VATICAN. 

cardinals.  scnllciTirn  and  ladies,  may  be  duly 
protected  from  harm  to  their  clothes  or  their 
complexions  —  at  most  and  best,  as  a  mere 
architectural  decoration — porticos  have  been 
erected  which  surpass  in  grandeur  most  of  the 
famous  buildings  of  the  ancient  and  the  mod- 
ern world — excites  some  astonishment,  and 
leads  one  to  wonder  what  the  interior  of  a  build- 
ing must  be,  of  which  this  costly  fabric  is  only 
one  of  its  mere  outside  ornaments. 

And  after  all  this  magnificent  architectural 
preparation,  and  the  expectation  naturally  ex- 
cited of  what  is  next  to  be  unfolded,  I  do  not 
believe  the  visitor  will  be  disappointed.  You 
then  ascend  by  many  flights  of  marble  steps 
to  the  grand  vestibule  or  porch  of  entrance, 
extending  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  across 
the  whole  front  by  fifty  in  breadth,  and  large 
enough,  therefore,  to  pack  away  snugly  within, 
several  churches  of  the  ordinary  size.  At 
each  end  is  seen  an  equestrian  statue,  one  of 
Charlemagne,  the  other  of  Constaiitine.  I  wish 
I  could  say  that  the  immense  central  door  of 
bronze  then  unfolds,  and  the  interior  at  once 


THE    INTERIOR.  53 

bursts  upon  the  excited  vision  of  the  spectator. 
Rut  that  door  opens  only  once  in  twenty-five 
years.  Instead  of  that,  the  impatient  visitor 
squeezes  his  way,  almost  at  the  risk  of  dis- 
memberment or  suffocation,  through  an  im- 
mense leathern  curtain  of  many  hundred 
pounds  weight.  But  this  obstruction  at  length 
safely  overcome,  the  danger  to  life  and  limb 
escaped,  you  at  a  single  glance  behold  the 
church  within  ;  and  with  what  emotions  of 
delighted  gratification,  it  were  vain  to  tell. 
Gray  describes  that  moment  by  saying,  "  I  saw 
St.  Peter's,  and  was  struck  dumb  with  aston- 
ishment." Any  one  may  well  so  exclaim  on 
the  first  burst  of  sight.  It  could  not  be  other- 
wise. He  may  afterwards  complain,  and  regret, 
and  criticise — may  find,  or  think,  this  too 
small,  that  too  low,  arches  too  flat,  ornaments 
too  profuse  and  tawdry,  windows  too  many, 
light  too  glaring  —  but  seen  all  at  once,  in  its 
totality,  from  any  one  chosen  point  of  sight, 
either  at  the  entrance,  or,  especially,  near  the 
transept,  and  just  under  the  edge  of  the  great 

dome,  and  there  can  be  no  disappointment,  any 
5* 


54  ST.     PKTK.KS     AM>    THE    VATICAN. 

more  than  with  the  pyramids,  or  the  sun,  or 
moon,  unless  one  has  chosen  to  feed  upon  the 
dangerous  food  of  the  imagination  till  he  has 
become  diseased,  and  the  mind  is  no  longer 
capable  of  judging  of  objects  of  real  existence. 
Obviously  there  is  a  class  of  Arabian  night 
imaginations  that  nothing  can  satisfy,  in  com- 
parison with  Miiosc  fancy  structures  St.  Peter's 
is  a  mere  martin-box.  But  to  the  health}'', 
reasonable  mind,  there  can  be  no  disappoint- 
ment on  the  whole, — the  eye  is  fairly  dazzled 
by  the  brilliancy  and  consummate  elegance  of 
the  whole  scene,  and,  at  first,  hardly  knows, 
or  dares  to  say,  what  it  is  he  sees.  All  appears 
a  confusion  of  the  most  exquisite  forms,  pro- 
portions and  colors  —  arch  beyond  arch,  dome 
beyond  dome,  all  glowing  with  marble  and 
gold,  diversified  and  enriched  with  mosaics, 
that  riv^al  the  hues  of  Titian  and  the  forms  of 
Raphael,  with  statues  and  monuments  wrought 
by  hands  like  those  of  Michael  Angelo  and 
Canova — from  the  mosaic  pavement  of  the 
floor  to  the  golden  panelling  of  the  roofs 
above  —  all  offers  a  truly  gorgeous  display  of 


THE    INTERIOK.  55 

tlie  most  elaborate  and  costly  art.  Costliness, 
ill  a  word,  richness,  brilliancy,  profusion  of 
glittering  ornament,  are  the  characteristics  of 
St.  Peter's,  as  solemnity,  stern  simplicity, 
religions  sobriety  are  those  of  the  Florence 
cathedral.  When  I  first  cast  my  eyes  to  the 
fretted  ceiling  shining  with  gold,  and  upon  all 
the  glory  above  and  around,  though  I  knew  I 
was  in  St.  Peter's,  I  could  not  think  of  a  Chris- 
tian church.  The  idea  refused  an  entrance  — 
I  could  only  think  of  a  pagan  temple  —  a  tem- 
ple of  Jupiter,  greatest  and  best,  of  Apollo,  or 
Diana  of  Ephesus.  As  a  heathen  temple,  no- 
thing could  appear  more  harmonious  through- 
out—  nothing  more  fit  and  appropriate;  as  a 
Christian  church,  it  was  discordant ;  there  was 
too  much  of  the  glory  and  glitter  of  this  world 
—  too  little  to  suggest  thoughts  of  religion; 
too  much  to  distract  the  mind  from  it,  and  bind 
it  to  the  transient,  and  the  material. 

I  have  mentioned  the  breadth  of  the  church 
in  front  as  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  —  that 
of  the  transept  is  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet. 
Its  length,  within  the  walls,  and  within  the 


56  ST.     PKTKIl's     AND    TIIF,    VATICAN. 

vestibule  also,  is  six  hiindrod.  The  extreme 
length  seven  hundred.  Sixty  thousand  sol- 
diers can  parade  upon  its  lloor.  The  height 
within,  from  the  lloor  to  the  ceiling  of  the 
great  dome,  is  three  hundred  and  eighty  feet. 
IJut  this  great  height  is  not  felt,  nor  commonly 
believed.  Nor  can  it  well  be  ;  as  the  apparent 
height  of  architectural  objects  is  necessarily  so 
much  diminished  through  the  effects  of  fore- 
shorteniug.  The  dome  rests  upon  arches 
springing  from  four  piers,  or  pillars,  the  ground 
which  each  covers  being,  it  is  well  known,  of 
the  exact  dimensions  of  one  of  the  Roman 
churches.  The  ceilings  of  the  great  dome 
and  of  all  the  lesser  ones,  are  ornamented  in 
the  richest  manner  conceivable,  by  the  brilliant, 
nufading  dies  of  mosaics,  copying  at  those 
great  heights,  and  under  those  diliicult  circum- 
stances, many  of  the  choicest  works  of  the  first 
artists  of  Italy.  Before  all  the  various  altars 
arc  represented,  by  the  same  imperishable  art, 
not  only  j)ictures  which  might  be  thought 
the  most  worthy,  as  mere  works  of  art,  to  be 
made  immortal  in  stone.  l)ut  which   would  be 


TIIK    IN'TKRIOR.  O I 

considered  tlie  most  affecting  to  the  religions 
mind.  All  the  vast  arches  of  the  great  temple 
are  most  richly  and  profnsely  decorated  with 
medallions  wrought  also  in  mosaic,  and  hy 
marble  statues  of  cherubs  and  child-angels. 
Columns,  almost  without  number,  of  the  most 
costly  variegated  marbles,  polished  to  the  bril- 
liancy of  metals,  are  found  every  where 
throughout  the  interior,  in  connection  with 
the  various  arches  and  domes.  Every  where 
in  the  numerous  chapels,  and  along  the  walls 
of  the  church,  monumental  marbles  of  colossal 
proportions  arrest  the  eye  of  the  spectator, 
and  gratify  it  by  exquisite  forms  of  art,  at 
least,  if  they  do  not  chance  to  move  or  ele- 
vate the  soul  by  the  memory  of  the  dead  who 
lie  mouldering  below.  Directly  beneath  the 
grand  dome,  at  the  point  of  the  intersection  of 
the  two  arms  of  the  cross,  in  a  vault  beneath 
the  pavement  of  the  church,  is  the  tomb  of  St. 
Peter,  around  which  a  hundred  lamps  perpetu- 
ally burn,  the  whole  covered  and  adorned  by 
that  enormous  tent  of  bronze  called  the  Balda- 
chino,  which  rises  to  a  height  of  ninety  feet, 


OO  ST.     PF.TF.R  S     ANO    THi:     VATICAX. 

and  spreads  over  a  Miilace  of  perhaps  fifty  feet 
sjpiare  ;  and  yet  tliis  huge  brazen  structure, 
with  its  immense  twisted  columns  and  broad 
canopy,  scarcely  is  felt  to  interrupt  the  eye  as, 
from  a  distance,  it  surveys  the  whole  interior. 

But  this  famous  building,  witliout  eiiual, 
in  elegant  art,  has  not  tiie  effect  to  produce 
a  religious  impression  upon  the  heart.  It 
produces  the  effects  of  material  beauty  —  daz- 
zling beauty  —  of  grandeur  in  architectural 
forms,  of  unapproached  magnificence,  but  not 
of  religion  —  almost  the  very  contrary.  Such 
was  the  impression,  at  least,  which  one 
received,  and  which  was  not  afterward  re- 
moved by  any  subsequent  familiarity.  Almost 
any  one  would  form  the  same  judgment  ; 
but  especially  one  who  had  been  accustomed, 
either  in  their  real  forms  or  as  represented 
in  engravings,  to  contemplate  the  Gothic  forms 
and  proportions  in  the  finest  examples  of  that 
order,  which  seems  as  naturally  the  truest  ex- 
pression of  religious  sentiment,  as  the  Greek 
and  Roman  forms  do  of  the  classical.  Who, 
if  he   were  a  person  of  any  cultivation,  would 


l/ 


THE    INTERIOR.  59 

think  of  erecting  a  Gothic  Hall  like  West- 
minster Hall,  or  the  nave  of  Notre  Dame,  to 
be  applied  to  the  purposes  of  a  banking  house, 
or  place  of  amusement  7  Those  forms  abso- 
lutely refuse  and  reject  such  alliance.  TheV 
Greek  and  Roman  styles  are  more  accom-  ] 
modating,  and  sufficiently  well  suited  to  all  the  ; 
various  uses  of  society,  religious  and  secular.  / 
It  is  not  possible  here  to  enter  into  the  reasons 
of  the  difference,  and  show  why  the  Gothic 
has  this  deep  root  in  religious  feeling,  and  will 
not  take  root  elsewhere.  It  is  enough,  further 
to  say,  that  if  he,  who  on  leaving  Rome  shall 
pass  immediately  over  to  France  and  England, 
and  there  survey  the  wonderful  examples  of  the 
middle-age  Gothic  at  Bourges,  Orleans,  Paris, 
London,  York,  will  feel  as  he  never  did  be- 
fore, how  the  Gothic  architecture  is  a  strict- 
ly religious  order,  and  how  a  temple  like  St. 
Peter's  fails,  and  necessarily  fails,  only  the  more,  / 
the  more  gorgeous  it  is  made,  to  convey  religious 
sentiment,  and  make  religious  impression.  York 
Minster,  if  we  may  make  such  comparisons,  is  ' 
a  Bible,  St.  Peter's   a  Poem,  the  Iliad,  if  you 


60  ST.     PETEU'S     AND    THE     VATICAN. 

will,  or  Paradise  Lost.  York  Minster  raises  the 
luiiicl,  compels  it  to  religions  contemplation. 
St.  Peter's  overwhelms  you  with  astonishment, 
at  the  achievements  of  man;  you  can  hardly 
believe  what  you  see,  that  man  has  done  it  all. 
In  St.  Peter's  you  think  more  of  man  ;  in  York, 
of  God. 

I  mean  not  in  this  to  withhold  praise  from 
St.  Peter's  ;  I  at  once,  and  willingly,  confess 
the  inadequacy  of  any  language  I  can  use  to 
describe  in  a  manner  worthy  of  it,  its  magnifi- 
cence and  beauty,  for,  like  our  Niagara,  beauty 
and  grandeur  both  contribute,  and  about  equal- 
ly, to  the  total  effect.  Genius  and  art  seem 
fairly  to  have  exhausted  their  resources  in  the 
production  of  this  great  result.  It  may  be  easy, 
as  you  examine,  to  suggest  changes,  and  blame 
this  part  and  another  ;  but  few,  I  apprehend, 
would  dare,  had  they  the  power,  to  actually 
attempt  an  alteration,  in  either  the  general  de- 
sign or  the  execution  of  any  of  the  details.  All 
is  on  a  scale  of  greatness,  and  of  perfect  ada[)- 
tation  of  part  to  })art,  to  which,  elsewhere,  there 
is  no  apj)roach.    Like  color  in  Titian  or  Allston, 


THE    INTERIOR,  Gl 

all  is  perfect  adjustment,  faultless  harmony. 
It  is  the  most  beautiful  apparition  in  the 
world. 

But  as  I  have  presumed  to  liken  St.  Peter's 
to  a  Pagan  Temple,  and  have  refused  to  feel 
there  as  if  in  a  Christian  Church,  I  will  add 
that  when  I  beheld  the  Catholic  service  per- 
forming there,  in  all  its  gorgeous  display  of 
procession,  costume,  and  music,  the  likeness  to 
any  thing  Christian  became  still  less ;  especially 
when  I  saw  that  revolting  solecism,  the  Pope, 
a  king  of  this  world,  receiving  more  than  the 
homage  of  any  other  earthly  potentate  ;  it 
seemed  then  as  if  I  were  indeed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  old  pagan  priesthood  and  ceremo- 
nial, and  I  had  been  carried  backwards  in  time 
to  the  days  of  the  Republic.  I  could  detect 
no  likeness,  between  this  man  covered  with 
embroidered  robes  stitf  with  gold,  the  triple 
crown  upon  his  head,  borne  along  upon  men's 
shoulders,  and  Jesus  Christ,  or  even  with  St. 
Peter,  the  poor  fisherman  apostle.  The  pageant, 
I  felt  sure,  was  a  magnificent  parade  in  honor 
of  Jupiter  or  Apollo,  and  nothing  else  ;  a  dedi- 
6 


62  ST.   Peter's   and  the   Vatican. 

catory   service,  perhaps,  of  the  very  temple  I 
was  in. 

Popery  and  St.  Peter's  are  in  natural  alliance, 
like  parts  of  one  stupendous  fiction.  But 
neither  seems,  by  any  possibility,  to  bear  rela- 
tion to  the  cradle  at  Bethlehem,  or  the  char- 
acter of  him  who  was  laid  there.  To  con- 
ceive of  Jesus  himself  —  and  why  should  this 
not  be  allowable  if  Popery  is  the  great  Chris- 
tian fact  —  to  conceive  of  Jesus  arrayed  in  the 
robes  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome,  officiating  at  the 
grand  altar,  performing  the  grand  mass,  beneath 
the  grand  Dome  of  St.  Peter's,  presents  a  series 
of  contrasts,  that  would  seem  to  settle  many  a 
great  question,  in  a  way  without  the  need  of, 
and  beyond  the  reach  of,  other  argument. 

Adjoining  St.  Peter's  stands  the  Vatican,  the 
Palace  of  the  pope,  and  once  his  residence, 
now  a  Museum  of  Antiquities  and  a  Library, 
—  the  Vatican,  with  its  numerous  quadrangles 
and  its  sumptuous  halls,  to  be  measured  not 
by  the  foot  or  the  furlong,  but  literally  by  the 
mile.       The    antiipiitics   of   precious    marbles 


MUSEUM    OF    THE    VATICAN.  G3 

exhumed  from  the  soil  of  the  city  fill  I  know 
not  how  many  endless  apartments,  and  enough 
doubtless  still  remain  in  the  soil,  to  fill  as 
many  more,  and  in  the  bed  of  the  river  as 
many  more.  But  already  there  are  more  than 
can  be  examined,  or  tolerably  nnderstood,  by 
months  of  severe  toil,  and  most  travellers  sur- 
vey them  all,  with  all  else  in  the  Museum,  in 
a  few  days  or  hours. 

As  this  professes  to  be  a  Museum  of  antiq- 
uities, for  the  careful  preservation  of  the  works 
of  the  old  Romans  and  Greeks,  one  cannot 
but  lament  that  it  should  not  be  truly  what 
it  professes  to  be.  But  a  principle  has 
been  adopted  and  carried  out  to  its  extreme, 
which  makes  it  any  thing  but  that ;  a  principle 
under  which,  it  has  been  more  an  object  to 
make  a  grand  and  beautiful  display  of  art, 
than  to  represent  truly  the  works  of  the 
ancients.  I  refer  to  the  extensive  restorations 
of  the  statues,  which  were  almost  all  when  first 
dug  up  found  more  or  less  injured,  limbs  lost,  or 
shattered,  heads  or  trunks  gone,  and  oftentimes 
nothing  more  than  a  mere  remnant  of  a  form,  to 


G4  ST.   Peter's  and  the  vaticav. 

Avliicli  to  l)c  attached  tlie  body,  whicli  a  mod- 
ern sculptor  was  employed  to  design  according 
to  the  best  of  his  conjectures.  That  is  the  way 
this  Museum  was  made  up.  But  this  is  to 
be  false  to  antiquity,  as  well  as  false  to  true 
taste.  Truth,  we  say,  before  all  else.  If  sud- 
denly, by  the  stroke  of  some  wand,  all  the 
limbs  and  heads  and  bodies  supplied  by  the 
moderns  could  drop  off,  what  a  singular  scene 
would  be  presented,  and  what  a  thunder  upon 
the  floor  from  the  falling  and  rolling  fragments, 
wJKit  a  disj)lay  of  headless  and  legless  mon- 
sters, and  how  would  the  grand  falsehood  of 
the  whole  stand  revealed  !  And  though  but 
comparatively  few  statues  might  then  remain 
upon  their  pedestals,  how  much  would  one 
prize  the  few  that  did  remain,  or  what  parts 
of  them  might  remain.  The  great  value 
of  such  objects  must  lie  in  their  truth, 
in  their  representing  a  particular  age ;  more- 
over, that  they  are  as  you  behold  them,  the 
identical  ol)jects,  more  or  less  injured,  the 
very  same  they  once  were,  as  they  stood  in 
the  public  temples  of  Rome,  or  in  the  private 


CHARACTER    OF    THE    MUSEUM.  OO 

apartments  of  some  Cassar,  Cicero,  Augustus, 
Antonine  of  those  days.  But  after  examining  a 
given  figure,  and  perhaps  admiring  it  as  an  an- 
tique, as  Greek  or  Roman,  to  learn  that  all,  or 
most  part  that  makes  it  beautiful  or  admira- 
ble, is  the  restorer's  art,  is  to  feel  as  if  a 
trick  had  been  played  upon  you  —  or  at  best, 
that  you  have  been  bestowing  your  interest 
upon  a  work  of  the  fourteenth  century,  instead 
of  upon  one  of  the  first  or  second.  And  then, 
in  other  cases,  though  you  may  pore  over  many 
a  catalogue,  you  may  never  be  able  to  learn, 
what  parts  of  a  statue  you  admire  are  ancient, 
or  what  modern.  And  what  is  more,  and  per- 
haps worse  to  the  lover  of  truth,  the  junctions  of 
old  and  new  portions  are  made  with  such  })er- 
fection,  that  the  lines  of  junction  are  not  to 
be  discovered  without  the  most  careful  search. 
To  the  eye  the  whole  Museum  is  one  of  mod- 
ern work.  A  remarkable  case  to  this  point,  is 
the  two-horse  Roman  chariot,  beautiful  and 
complete  as  it  now  stands,  but  wholly  the  work 
of  the  antiquarians  and  the  Italian  sculptor  ; 
that  is  to  say,  there  was  hardly  an  original  frag- 


06  ST.     PF.TF.r's     and    the    VATICAN. 

ment  to  which  to  attacli  the  modern  stnictnre, 
^\•lli<■h  now  siir|»riscs  you  with  deliglit.  But 
standing  whore  it  does,  it  is  but  a  bold  and  im- 
pudent imposture.*  This  is  a  great  drawback 
upon  the  interest  and  vahie  of  the  collection  of 
the  Vatican. 

One  most  valuable  relic  of  ancient  art  in 
those  halls,  called  the  Torso,  the  back,  that 
is  merely,  of  a  colossal  figure,  has  been  left  as 
found,  a  mere  trunk.  How  much  more  pre- 
cious than  if  Bandinelli,  or  Montorsoli,  or  even 
Michael  Angelo  himself,  had  been  employed  to 
complete  the  form  according  to  his  own  fancy, 
or  the  Pope's  orders. 

It  is  a  happy  circumstance,  that  in  respect  to 
one  of  the  most  perfect  pieces  of  statuary  in 
the  world,  the  famous  Apollo  Belvidere,  it  was, 
when  first  disinterred  from  the  superincumbent 
ruins,  found  almost  perfect  —  the  right  fore- 
arm, the  left  hand,  and  a  portion  of  the  right 
foot,  were  alone  necessary  to  be  added.     This 

*  jMuseo  Vaiicano,  p.  168.  The  nucleus  to  the  whole  —  horses 
and  carriage  —  was,  the  hack  of  one  of  the  horses  and  the  seat 
of  the  chariot. 


THE    APOLLO.  67 

was  done  by  a  disciple  of  Michael  Angelo. 
This  statue  was  discovered  in  the  sixteenth 
century  at  Antium,  not  far  from  the  month  of 
the  Tiber,  a  seaport  of  some  consequence,  and 
a  favorite  occasional  residence  of  several  of 
the  emperors.  As  it  now  stands  in  a  beauti- 
ful cabinet  called  the  Belvidere,  it  is  cer- 
tainly worthy  of  all  the  homage  it  has  ever 
received,  and  still  receives  from  every  lover  of 
art,  from  whatever  quarter  of  the  world  he 
may  come,  and  in  whatever  previous  state  of 
mind  or  even  prejudice.  Still  it  rouses  little 
feeling,  it  stirs  little  enthusiasm.  You  look  at 
it,  admire,  praise,  and  depart.  And  it  could 
scarcely  be  otherwise.  There  is  no  sentiment 
in  the  form  to  call  forth  sentiment  in  the  be- 
holder, beyond  the  admiration  of  mere  animal 
beauty,  and  that  can  hardly  move  or  fire  the 
mind.  When,  in  the  Museum  of  the  Capitol, 
you  look  at  the  form  of  the  dying  gladiator, 
though  the  one  is  a  god  and  the  other  a 
slave,  you  can  hardly  withdraw  your  eyes 
from  what  so  deeply  interests  you.  As  works 
of  art,  one   perhaps  is  not   less    perfect  than 


68  ST.   Peter's   and  the  Vatican. 

the  other.  The  diirereiice  in  tlie  attractive- 
ness and  power  of  the  one  over  the  other 
must  be  explained,  I  suppose,  by  the  exist- 
ence in  the  one  of  the  tragic  element, 
which  reigns  paramount  over  every  other. 
But  in  the  Apollo  there  is  not  only  nothing 
llial  yields  a  tragic  interest,  there  is  too  little  to 
yield  any  at  all.  The  expression  is  the  dignified 
one  of  a  person  looking  upward  as  if  expecting 
something,  or  watching  something  ;  the  expla- 
nation is,  watching  the  flight  of  an  arrow  that 
has  just  left  the  bow.  It  well  expresses  that,  but 
nothing  more.  So  inferior  also  to  the  Venus, 
either  of  Florence  or  of  the  Capitol,  but  partic- 
ularly the  Florence.  You  may  say  that  in  both 
these  cases,  there  is  only  animal  beauty  to  ex- 
cite an  interest;  and  it  is  true.  And  the  only 
diflerence,  that  in  the  one  it  is  the  beauty  of 
a  man.  in  the  other  of  a  woman.  But  just  as  in 
real  life  in  ancient  and  in  modern  times,  as  fe- 
male beauty  is  that  for  which  the  world  has  a 
thousand  times  gone  mad,  while  it  has  never 
done  so  for  the  beauty  of  a  man,  so  in  these 
statues,  the  Apollo  receives  few  worshippers,  is 


THE    LAOCOON.  69 

comparatively  neglected,  while  for  the  Venus, 
crowds  gather  around  her,  and  few  leave  her  for 
the  last  time  without  a  sensible  pang.  And  the 
universal  judgment  of  mankind,  which  thus 
places  her  at  the  summit  of  art,  one  submits  to 
readily",  as  probably  just,  as  he  does  in  literature 
to  the  universally  allowed  claims  of  Homer, 
Virgil,  Dante,  Shakspeare. 

Not  far  from  the  Apollo  stands  the  Laocoon, 
discovered  on  the  Esquiline,  among  the  ruins 
of  the  Palace  of  Titus,  and  placed  in  the  cham- 
bers of  the  Vatican  by  Leo  X.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  size  and  complicated  character  of  this 
wonderful  group,  each  of  the  three  figures  in 
the  most  violent  action,  and  the  folds  of  the 
serpent  winding  around  all  the  limbs  of  both 
father  and  sons,  in  the  most  intricate  manner, 
it  has  sustained  but  the  most  trifling  injury 
from  time  —  an  escape  almost  miraculous, 
when  it  is  considered  the  masses  of  building 
which  must  have  fallen  upon  it,  but  beneath 
which  it  then  lay  securely  buried.  It  is  a  sub- 
ject for  sculpture,  which  can  possess  no  attrac- 
tion except  for  the  difficulties,  almost  impos- 


70  ST.   Peter's   and  the  Vatican. 

sibilities,  by  which  its  execution  was  attended, 
and  by  which  they  liave  been  overcome  with 
a  genius  second  certainly  to  that  of  no  other 
whose  fame  has  descended  to  our  time.  Such 
truth  pervades  it  in  conception  and  expression, 
that  one  is  ahiiost  as  much  ])ained^and  horror- 
struck  at  a  mere  view  of  it  in  marble,  as  if 
living  persons  were  dying  before  your  eyes, 
within  the  crushing  folds  of  the  hideous  mon- 
ster. The  tragedy  is  too  real,  too  loathsome, 
for  enjoyment.  You  leave  it  in  deepest  ad- 
miration of  the  pawers  of  the  human  mind, 
but  you  never  wish  to  see  it  again,  and  do 
not  believe  that  it  can  ever  cease  to  visit  and 
torment  your  dreams. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  describe  or  even 
name  more  of  the  works  of  sculjjturc  which 
crowd  the  magnificent  halls  of  the  Vati- 
can. It  must  suffice  to  say,  that  in  these 
halls  there  are  seventeen  hundred  and  sixty 
separate  works  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and 
Romans,  described  in  the  catalogues,  and 
standing  on  the  floors,  all  of  which  are  pos- 
sessed of  merit  enough  to  make  ihem  worthy 


GALLERY    OF    PICTURES.  71 

of  the  attentive  examination  of  the  student  of 
art.  Particularly  curious  is  the  large  hall  filled 
with  the  forms,  sculptured  in  marble,  of .  vari- 
ous kinds  of  animals,  wild  and  tame,  and  also 
of  reptiles,  birds  and  insects,  all  wrought  with 
true  and  exquisite  art.  Even  the  lobster  and  the 
crab,  tortoise  and  turtle,  are  there  of  the  natu- 
ral size,  and  which  need  only  the  color  to  be 
added  to  be  facsimiles  of  those  interesting 
creatures. 

We  must  now  abandon  the  halls  of  sculp- 
ture, however,  and  turn  for  a  few  moments  to 
those  of  painting.      .■  :. 

And  what  attracts  strangers  from  all  parts  of 
the  civilized  world  to  the  Vatican,  is  probably 
even  much  more  the  paintings  of  the  middle 
ages  —  of  the  days  of  Lorenzo,  Leo  X.,  and 
the  succeeding  century,  than  the  remains  of 
Greek  and  Roman  sculpture  of  which  I  have 
just  spoken.  It  is  the  works  of  Ratfaelle  and 
Michael  Angelo,  their  famous  frescoes,  or  such 
oil  pictures  as  the  Transfiguration  of  Ratfaelle, 
and  the  works  of  Dominichino,  Correggio,  and 


72  ST.     PKTEU'S    AND    THE    VATICAN. 

Giicrcino  —  it  is  these  that,  even  more  than  the 
antiquities,  attract  and  reward  the  attention  of 
the  traveller.  Nor  can  any  one  doubt,  I  think, 
for  a  moment,  that  in  the  works  of  these 
Italian  artists  of  the  fifteenth  century,  there  is 
more  genius  displayed  than  in  all  the  marble 
that  in  this  Museum  has  descended  to  us  from 
the  ancients. 

The  collection  of  easel  pictures  in  the  Vati- 
can is  quite  small  —  not  more  than  thirty  or 
forty  in  all.  But  in  ])roportion  to  its  size,  it  is 
probably  the  most  valuable  collection  in  the 
world.  It  contains  the  Transfiguration,  es- 
teemed the  first  picture  in  the  world  ;  and, 
hanging  opposite,  the  Communion  of  St. 
Jerome,  by  Dominichino,  esteemed  the  second. 
Were  such  ))icturcs  to  be  sold,  kings  only 
would  be  the  bidders,  with  treasuries  of  na- 
tions to  draw  from. 

One  picture  in  this  collection,  of  but  a  little 
more  than  the  usual  portrait  size,  by  Guercino, 
the  "  Incredulity  of  St.  Thomas,"  deserves  to  be 
smgled  out  above  almost  all  others  in  the  room, 
for  its  intellectual  and  moral  force,  and  for  the 


GUERCINO.  73 

perfection  with  which  the  states  of  mind,  on  the 
part  both  of  Christ  and  the  Apostle,  are  ex- 
pressed. It  is  a  picture  of  the  most  touching  in- 
terest. The  tender,  compassionate  rebuke  of 
Christ  —  for  still  it  is  a  rebuke  — for  his  perse- 
severing  incredulity,  is  uttered  with  marvellous 
truth  ;  and,  with  no  less  perfection,  the  intense 
earnestness,  and,  as  yet,  unsatisfied  faith,  with 
which  the  disciple  peers  into  the  open  side, 
and  with  hesitating,  shrinking  wonder,  is  just 
about  to  thrust  his  fingers  into  the  cavity. 
The  expression  of  the  most  delicate  shades  of 
moral  sentiment  could  hardly  be  carried  farther. 
By  this  admirable  artist,  I  afterwards  saw  in 
the  gallery  in  Turin,  a  picture  of  the  Prodigal 
Son,  of  no  less  power  and  moral  beauty  —  no 
extravagance,  no  pretence,  no  undue  aiming  at 
effect,  and  yet,  that  full  and  complete  effect 
jjroduced,  that  would  have  attended  the  scene 
itself.  The  arms  of  the  father  are  stretched 
out  as  he  throws  himself  forward  to  meet  his 
son,  in  an  agony  of  tender  emotion,  —  with  a 
love  as  if  he  would  encircle  in  his  embrace  a 
world  of  sinners  —  and   the  countenance  not 


74  ST.     PKTKU^     AM)    THK     VATICAN. 

less  significant  in  its  language  than  the  arms. 
The  son  faces  the  father,  and  has  his  back 
toward  the  spectator,  and  the  countenance  is 
not  seen  ;  yet  so  consummate  is  the  dramatic 
action,  that  if  ever  a  picture  could  be  char- 
acterized as  overwhelming  in  it^  pathos  — 
and  that  even  in  the  case  of  the  son  —  it  is 
this. 

A  really  great  master,  we  know,  will  often 
convey  the  most  delicate  shade  of  moral  senti- 
ment as  powerfully  sometimes  by  form  and 
attitude,  as  by  the  countenance.  It  is  cer- 
tainly so  in  this  instance.  And  among  modern 
artists  you  may  observe  the  same  effects  pro- 
duced, and  by  similar  means  —  by  ShaefFer,  in 
his  Francesca  di  Rimini. 

For  power  of  expression,  this  artist,  Gucr- 
cino,  is  in  no  way  inferit)r  to  Ratfaelle,  and  often 
surpasses  him.  But  lor  his  too  dark  tone  of 
color,  (his  pictures  are,  many  of  them,  almost 
black,)  he  would  have  stood  side  by  side  with 
the  prince  of  painters.  In  the  Corsini  Palace, 
not  far  from  the  Vatican,  there  is  a  head  of 
Christ  by  this  artist,  the   head  alone  ;   repre- 


GUERCINO.  75 

senting  onr  Lord  just  after  the  scourging  and 
crowning  with  thorns,  whicli  for  this  same  un- 
eqiiaUed  power  of  moral  expression,  the  reli- 
gious expression  of  resignation,  together  with 
the  human  expression  of  the  most  intense  suf-  j 
fering,  made  all  only  too  true  by  a  color  which 
was  never  surpassed  by  any  artist  of  any  pe- 
riod, transcends  all  one  could  have  conceived 
of  the  power  of  painting.  Let  no  one  be  in 
Rome  without  seeing  that  head.  It  is  a  mira- 
cle of  art.  It  is  very  painful  to  look  upon  for 
its  awful  truth,  but  it  is  a  miracle  of  art.  But 
not  only  is  it  eminent  for  the  representation, 
with  such  truth,  of  this  particular  moment  of 
time,  it  is,  independently  of  other  merit  just 
mentioned,  in  the  general  form  and  character  of 
the  head  —  a  very  noble  one  —  more  beautiful, 
more  grand  in  all  its  parts  than  any  other, 
whether  by  Guide,  Raffaelle,  or  Michael  An- 
gelo,  I  could  find  elsewhere. 

The  Communion  of  St.  Jerome,  by  Domeni- 
chino,  was  all  you  Avould  expect  to  find  from 
his  high  reputation.  But  it  often  happens 
that  pictures   of  less  general  repute,  produce 


76  ST.    i'ktf.r's   and  the   vaticax. 

deeper  impressions  upon  the  mind  and  heart. 
For  perfection  in  every  department  of  art, 
the  highest  and  every  other,  this  work  of 
Domenichino  deserves  the  place  assigned  to  it  ; 
yet  —  I  suppose  it  is  in  the  subject  of  the 
picture  in  wliich  the  difficulty  lies,  —  but  it 
produces  little  eflect  beyond  admiration. 

It  is  useless  to  speak  here  of  such  a  work  as 
the  Transfiguration  of  Raffaelle,  either  to 
praise  or  to  criticise  ;  it  needs  a  discourse  by 
itself  to  point  out  and  display  its  wonderful 
merits,  or  to  name  and  present  reasons  for  sup- 
posed defects.  I  would  only  name  one  general 
fault  —  if  fault  it  be  —  which  struck  my  eye 
as  soon  as  I  saw  it,  which  was  the  general  tone 
of  color  in  the  celestial  part  of  the  picture.  It 
is  almost  of  a  deep  cloud-blue,  fading  away 
into  a  bluish  white  as  it  reaches  the  figures  of 
Christ  and  the  two  prophets,  which  gives  to  it 
all  a  cold  and  heavy  look,  when  one  certainly 
Avould  expect  from  the  scene  something  like 
the  radiance,  brightness,  and  glory  of  Heaven, 
as  nearly  as  color  could  express  it. 

I  experienced  a  disappointment  of  the  same 


AURORA    OF    GUIDO.  It 

kind  on  seeing  the  Aurora  of  Guido,  in  the 
Rospigliosi  Palace,  The  Heavens  are  of  a 
similar  dark  blue,  lighter  only  about  the 
person  of  Apollo,  where  a  little  yellow  breaks 
in.  But  in  this  instance,  not  only  was 
there  somewhat  hard  and  cold  in  the  gen- 
eral tone  of  color,  but  faults  of  a  more  seri- 
ous kind  appear  in  the  countenances,  forms 
and  attitudes  of  the  Hours,  those  beautiful 
goddesses,  as  they  encircle  the  Chariot  of 
Day,  Our  associations  with  the  approach  of 
day  are  of  the  most  joyous  character.  In  the 
personifications  attempted  by  the  artist  to  rep- 
resent it,  we  should  look  for  a  joyous  circle  of 
animated  creatures  radiant  with  glory,  bright 
with  joy,  as  they  are  employed  in  shedding 
down  upon  the  earth  —  dull,  dark,  unfruitful, 
till  the  spreading  light  and  heat  shall  descend  to 
bless  it  —  the  cheering  influences  of  the  rising 
sun.  But  there  is  no  such  sentiment  expressed 
in  any  part,  nor  by  any  person,  of  the  pic- 
ture. The  celestial  beings  representing  tlie 
Hours  are  all  of  them  beautifully  drawn,  and     ^'  i 

draped  with  elegance ;    but,  if  they  were  at- 
7* 


78  ST.     PKTER's    and    the     VATICAN. 

tending  the  funeral  of  the  sun,  instead  of 
rejoicing  in  his  morning  resurrection,  they 
could  not  be  more  devoid  of  all  appearance  of 
hilarity  in  countenance  and  movement,  or  ap- 
pear less  engaged  in  the  service  they  are  per- 
forming. And  for  Apollo,  he  looks  the  true 
file-leader  of  the  lugubrious  company.  All 
this,  too,  so  different  from  what  one  would 
have  locked  for  from  the  color  and  manner  of 
Guido  ;  his  color  being  characteristically  light 
and  aerial  in  the  tints,  and  the  countenances  of 
his  angels  bright  and  blissful,  as  becomes  the 
nature  of  those  heavenly  messengers. 

Raffaelle's  Chambers,  as  they  are  termed  — 
four  or  five  cold,  dark,  gloomy  looking  rooms, 
thirty  or  forty  feet  square,  laid  with  brick 
floors,  without  furniture,  even  a  chair,  pos- 
sessing not  a  single  architectural  charm  or 
merit  —  have  their  walls  on  each  of  their  four 
sides  completely  covered  in  fresco  with  the 
works  of  that  great  genius.  Here  are  to  be 
seen  on  one  side-wall  of  one  of  the  rooms, 
"The  School  of  Athens;"  on  another,  "The 
Dispute  of  the  Sacrament,"  then,  on  others, 


raffaelle's  chambers.  79 

"The  Parnassus,"  "The  Incendio  del  Borgo," 
"  Heliodorus,"  "  The  Delivery  of  St.  Peter  from 
Prison,"  "The  Battle  of  Constantino,"  &c. — 
all  seen  with  great  difficulty,  on  account  of 
injuries  inflicted  by  time  and  damp  —  never 
with  comfort,  or  much  success,  on  account  of 
cross-lights,  and  which,  of  the  pictures  on  the 
same  side  as  the  window,  are  hardly  to  be  seen 
at  all.  The  lover  of  art,  or  the  traveller,  who  at 
the  present  day  attempts  to  study  them  in  spite 
of  many  needless  discomforts  and  difficulties, 
is  led  to  think  and  speak  very  disrespectfully 
of  the  powers  which  manage  such  things  in 
Rome  —  both  of  those  who  compelled  this 
groat  man  to  lavish  his  genius  on  so  unpromis- 
ing a  field,  where,  when  his  work  was  ended, 
it  could  not  be  seen,  and  now  drive  away  the 
student,  through  sheer  fatigue,  from  the  im- 
possibility of  obtaining  a  moment's  rest  on 
chair  or  bench.  It  is  impossible  to  speak, 
under  these  circumstances,  as  becomes  them, 
of  these  wonderful  works  —  the  theme  is  too 
large.  I  can  only  say,  I  believe  that  any  one 
who  has  some  knowledge  already  of  the  art, 


80  ST.   Peter's   and  the  Vatican. 

some  love  of  it,  and  is  able  to  spare  the  time 
and  encounter  the  fatigue  of  examining  them, 
will  find  them  all  that  could  be  expected  from 
even  the  fame  that  has  been  growing  brighter 
with  every  year  and  century  that  has  passed 
over  them.  But  it  requires  some  or  all  of 
these  conditions  to  understand  and  value  them. 
In  one  particular  I  found  them  surpassing 
expectation.  I  found  a  grace  and  charm 
of  color  in  the  i)ictures  least  injured,  which 
surprised  me.  That  Raffaelle  could  color  with 
a  splendor  scarce  inferior  to  Titian,  I  knew 
from  the  portraits  of  Leo  X.,  Julius  II.,  and  the 
Madonna  del  Seggiola.  But  critics  had  given 
me  to  imderstand,  that  in  these  frescoes  he  had 
either  purposely  sobered  his  pencil  so  as  to 
reduce  his  color  to  hardly  more  than  light 
and  shade,  or  time  had  so  defaced  them  that 
their  early  beauties  had  faded  out.  But  on 
some  of  those  walls,  particularly  those  repre- 
senting the  Dispute  of  the  Sacrament,  the  Par- 
nassus, and  the  Delivery  of  St.  Peter,  I  could 
hardly  believe  that  I  was  not  gazing  upon  the 
works  of  those  who  had  made  color  their  spe- 


raffelle's  chambf.rs.  81 

cial  object.  With  respect  to  others,  however, 
the  colors  had  not  only  vanished  —  if  they  had 
ever  been  there  —  but  even  the  forms  them- 
selves had  nearly  perished,  and  can  now  be 
perfectly  seen  only  in  engravings.  Especially 
was  that  the  case  in  the  greatest  of  all  those 
masterpieces,  "  The  School  of  Athens."  The 
largest  of  all  these  works,  the  Battle  of  Con- 
stantine,  is  also,  perhaps,  the  best  preserved. 
RafFaelle  died  before  he  could  complete  it ;  but 
the  design  had  been  finished,  and  every  form 
had  been  drawn  by  his  own  hand  before  his 
death ;  the  coloring  put  in  afterwards  by  the 
skilful  hand  of  his  favorite  pupil,  Julio  Romano. 
Little  as  one  may  relish  battles,  he  cannot  but 
pause  before  this  immense  picture  with  admi- 
ration ;  with  astonishment  at  the  amount  of 
labor  involved,  with  wonder  at  the  perfection 
with  which  every  attitude,  limb,  muscle,  ex- 
pression and  action  of  man  and  horse  is  render- 
ed. There  is  seen  a  battle  with  all  the  fire, 
spirit,  rage,  truth  of  the  actual  fight.  One 
would  hardly  have  expected  that  he  v/ho  was 
almost  'par-  excellence  the    painter  of  poetry, 


82  ST.   Peter's  and  the  Vatican. 

philosoj)hy  and  religion,  should  have  repre- 
sented with  snch  perfection  the  horrors  of  war. 
But,  like  Shakspeare,  every  phase  of  human 
life  could  be  presented  by  this  great  man  with 
equal  ease  and  equal  truth.  He  teas  every 
thing,  and  he  could,  therefore,  do  every  thing. 

From  the  Chambers  of  RafFaelle  the  travel- 
ler passes  to  the  Sistine  Chapel,  the  ceiling  of 
which,  and  the  great  western  end  of  the  church, 
are  the  work  of  Michael  Angelo.  On  the  cnd- 
wall  is  the  picture  of  the  Last  Judgment — on 
the  ceiling,  the  Prophets  and  Sybils. 

Let  no  one  go  to  Rome  in  the  hope  of  cither 
seeing  or  enjoying  the  once  world-renowned 
picture  of  the  Last  Judgment.  It  is  now 
scarcely  visible  —  what  with  damp,  neglect, 
the  smoke  of  wax  candles,  and  time.  But 
time  would  have  given  it  an  existence  longer 
by  a  thousand  years,  but  for  the  operation 
of  those  other  unnecessary  causes.  These  are 
reasons  why  it  cannot  now  be  seen  at  all. 
Other  reasons  will  not  now  allow  it  to  be  en- 
joyed, could  it  be  sceji  ever  so  well.  The 
awful   subjoct  of  the  })icturc  is    treated   in  a 


PICTURE    OF    THE    LAST    JUDGMENT.  S3 

manner  too  gross  and  material,  and,  we  must 
add,  with  too  much  levity,  for  the  mind  of 
the  present  generation.  One  is  ready  to  think 
that  IMichael  Angelo  intended  it  as  a  satire  on 
the  vulgar  doctrines  of  the  church.  Certainly, 
the  human  heart  under  the  influences  of  Chris- 
tian truth  so  long,  has  become  too  much 
softened  to  endure  a  treatment  of  a  subject, 
which,  in  tlie  fifteenth  century,  one  must 
suppose,  occasioned  to  the  Christians  of  those 
days  the  fiercest  delight,  if  we  judge  from 
the  frequency  with  which  it  was  treated  in 
all  parts  of  Italy.  Nothing,  apparently,  gave 
them  more  heartfelt  pleasure,  than  witnessing 
on  the  walls  of  churches  or  the  domes  of 
cathedrals,  the  torments  of  the  damned  — 
God  the  Father  sitting  and  with  compla- 
cency surveying  the  scene ;  Christ,  the  active 
agent,  by  whom  the  millions  of  mankind  are 
plunged  into  the  fiery  billows  of  endless 
woe.  That  is  precisely  the  subject,  and  the 
manner  of  treating  it  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
Michael  Angelo  made  no  advance  in  the  man- 
ner of  handling  it  over  the  age  in  which  he 


84  ST.   Peter's   and  the  Vatican. 

lived.  Great  as  he  was,  lie  was  not  great 
enough  for  that.  Or  if,  for  hirnself,  he  might 
have  preferred  another  manner  of  dealing  with 
it,  he  would  doubtless  have  been  withheld  from 
any  attempts  to  do  so,  by  the  prevalent  super- 
stitions of  his  age.  Any  attempt  on  his  part 
to  show  that  the  sufferings  of  futurity  were  of 
a  moral,  not  physical  character,  might  have 
proved  him  a  better  theologian  and  a  wiser 
man,  but  might,  at  the  same  time,  have  con- 
fined him,  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  to  the 
dungeons  of  the  Inquisition. 

But  if  one  is  to  be  warned  against  expecta- 
tions of  pleasure  from  seeing  the  picture  of  the 
Last  Judgment,  he  may  be  assured  that  he 
would  be  well  repaid  if  he  journeyed  hence  to 
Rome,  with  the  single  purpose  of  seeing  the 
ceiling  of  the  Sistine  —  saw  that,  studied  it 
thoroughly,  and  returned,  having  seen  nothing 
else.  If  one  understands  enough  of  the  art  of 
painting  to  appreciate  its  dilliculties,  the  genius 
it  requires,  and  tlie  obstacles  to  be  encountered 
and  overcome — especially  painting  in  fresco  — 
and  especially,  still  again,  painting  upon  a  ceil- 


CEILING    OF    THE     SISTINE.  85 

ing  —  then  casts  his  eye  to  the  ceiling  of  that 
chapel,  and  is  told  that  one  mind  conceived 
and  one  hand  executed  it,  with  all  the  miracles 
of  art  that  astonish  yon.  in  the  short  space  of 
two  years,  he  would  stoutly  deny  its  possi- 
bility ;  or,  else,  Divine  Creatures  descended, 
and  stood  at  his  side,  inspired  his  mind  and 
guided  his  pencil.  This  ceiling,  you  may  re- 
member, is  covered  with  figures  of  the  Prophets 
and  the  Sybils,  of  the  grandest  form  ;  designed 
and  painted  with  a  freedom  of  hand,  and  a 
sublimity  of  conception,  to  which  there  is 
nothing  corresponding  in  the  whole  history 
of  art.  Any  one  of  those  forms,  done  by  an 
artist  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers  and  with 
years  at  his  command,  would  have  raised  him 
at  once  to  celebrity.  Our  Allston  was  a  man  of 
great  genius  ;  in  one  department  of  art  almost 
without  rival.  Yet  he  left  half  finished  a 
single  picture  on  which  he  had  been  employed 
many  years — conquered  by  multiplied  difficul- 
ties of  the  task.  But  the  mind  that  painted  the 
Ceiling  of  the  Sistine  was  the  same  that  raised 
the  Dome  of  St.  Peter's  ;  and  the  same  that 


86  ST.     PETKIl's    AND    THE     VATICAN. 

Struck  out  of  the  marble  the  marvellous  statues 
of  Night  and  Day,  Morning  and  Evening,  Julius 
the  Second,  Moses,  David  —  an  accumulation 
of  power  in  a  single  mind,  to  which  a  parallel 
can  scarcely  be  found  in  any  age.  None 
have  doubted  whether  he  was  the  greatest 
man  of  his  age,  or,  as  one  who  had  exer- 
cised the  three  just  named  arts,  the  greatest, 
probably,  that  ever  lived.  But  it  has  been 
doubted  and  disputed  in  which  of  the  three 
he  was  greatest.  After  contemplating  at  leis- 
ure the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine,  and  calling  to 
mind  the  other  works  of  Michael  Angelo,  for 
myself,  I  could  not  doubt.  I  would  rather 
have  designed  and  painted  that  ceiling,  as  an 
intellectual  achievement,  than  have  done  any 
other  work  in  the  same  department  of  art,  the 
fame  of  which  has  descended  to  our  time. 
There  is  more  genius  involved  in  some  of  those 
figures  than  in  the  building  of  St.  Peter's. 
Bramante  might  have  completed  St.  Peter's, 
as  he  began  it,  could  his  life  have  been  pro- 
longed :  and  others  of  the  eight  or  ten  who 
were  employed  uj  on  the   building  might  have 


CEILING     OF    THE    SISTINE.  0/ 

designed  and  finished  it ;  they  would  have 
proved  themselves  competent  to  the  task ; 
while  they  successively  might  have  failed  in 
power  to  conceive  the  forms,  attitudes,  expres- 
sions, of  the  Prophets  and  the  Sybils.  Here, 
in  the  Sistine,  was  he  superior  to  himself  in 
the  art  in  which  he  excelled  all  others.  No- 
where else  did  he  produce  forms  like  these, 
which  seem  as  if  they  had  been  projected 
upon  the  wall  by  a  sort  of  inspiration,  and  by 
a  power  of  a  different  mould  from  man's. 
There  are  to  be  seen  the  truest  footsteps  of 
his  genius. 

Such  are  some  of  the  characteristic  features 
of  Rome  —  the  Campagna,  the  Colosseum,  St. 
Peter's,  the  Chambers  of  RafFaelle,  and,  above 
all,  the  Ceiling  of  the  Sistine. 


FLORENCE. 


8» 


FLORENCE. 


Beautiful  Florence  !  That  is  the  charac- 
teristic epithet  by  which  this  capital  is  always 
to  be  described.  Seen  from  a  neighboring 
height,  such,  for  instance,  as  that  of  the 
Convent  of  San  Miniato,  or  Fiesole,  and  it 
must  be  hard  to  believe  that  any  vision  more 
lovely  could  meet  the  eye,  though  one  should 
ascend  in  succession  every  hill-top  in  Europe. 
Directly  beneath  the  convent,  encircled  by  her 
lofty  walls,  stands  the  beautiful  capital,  adorn- 
ed as  a  bride  ;  her  jewelry,  the  Cathedral  with 
its  clustering  domes,  the  central  one  almost 
as  large  as  that  of  St.  Peter's  —  Giotto's  lofty 
'Campanile,  with  its  slender  proportions  and 
queenly  elegance  of  form  —  the  grotesque 
forms  of  the  tower  of  the  Old  Palace,  with  its 


:..^ 


J, 


92  FLOKKNCi:. 

embattled  walls  —  the  Baj)tistery,  whose  gates 
of  sculptured  brouze  have  obtained  such  ce- 
lebrity—  the  Medicean  Chapel,  whose  interior 
dazzles  the  eye  with  its  polished  marbles, 
precious  stones  and  painted  ceilings  —  these, 
together  with  the  lofty  roofs  with  their  massive 
cornices  of  the  Ricardi  and  Strozzi  Palaces, 
constrain  one  to  cry  out  as  he  gazes,  Beautiful 
Florence  !  Then,  the  eye  leaving  the  towers 
and  domes  of  the  city  falls  upon  the  Arno, 
which,  dividing  unequally  the  capital,  and 
crossing  the  loveliest  plains  in  the  world,  winds 
away  among  the  hills,  and  enters  the  Mediter- 
ranean vmder  the  walls  of  Pisa.  When  the 
river  by  a  sudden  turn  among  the  mountains 
has  hidden  itself  from  sight,  the  spectator  rests 
his  eye,  and  rests  it  indeed,  on  the  broad  fields 
of  the  richest  husbandry  imaginable,  which 
stretcli  from  the  walls  of  the  city  twenty 
miles  towards  the  west,  an  absolute  j)lain,  to 
where  it  meets  the  roots  of  the  Apennines,  and 
plain,  mountain,  and  cloud,  in  the  purple  haze 
of  an  Italian  sky,  are  lost  in  one  indistinguish- 
able confusion  of  colors  and  forms.     No  one 


SCENERY    OF    THE    ENVIRONS.  93 

can  even  faintly  guess  what  the  beauty  of  a 
plain  is,  till  he  sees  this  of  Florence  under  the 
glowing  light  of  a  summer's  sunset,  the  sur- 
face of  the  plain  here  and  there  broken  by  the 
outline  of  castle  or  church,  village  or  villa,  by 
the  tapering  cypress  with  its  black  foliage,  or 
by  the  Italian  pine  with  its  spreading  um- 
brella top,  the  most  picturesque  of  trees,  and 
which  lends  its  grace  to  so  many  of  the  land- 
scapes of  Claude  Lorraine. 

As  soon  as  the  observer  can  bear  to  with- 
draw his  eyes  from  scenes  like  these,  he  raises 
them  to  the  surrounding  hills,  which,  as  if  for 
a  wall  of  shelter  and  defence,  surround  the 
city  on  every  side,  save  the  single  point  v/here 
the  Arno  penetrates  the  vast  mountain  em- 
bankment to  join  the  sea.  These  hills  are 
not  marked  by  any  of  the  very  picturesque 
forms,  which  are  to  be  noticed  among  so  many 
of  the  mountains  of  Italy,  but,  rather,  by  those 
graceful  curves  and  sweeps,  those  indescribable 
beauties  of  long  undulating  lines,  which,  like 
so  many  other  objects  in  that  remarkable  re- 
gion, cause   the  traveller  again  and  again  to 


94 


FI-ORKNCE. 


exclaim  as  he  surveys  them,  "  IIow  Beauti- 
ful !  "  They  are  the  delectable  mountaius  of 
Buu)'au  :  and  ought  to  be  residences  of  blessed 
spirits.  Gentlemen's  country-seats,  the  villas 
and  palaces  of  })rinces,  ruins  of  past  ages,  old 
convents  and  old  castles,  farm-houses  M'itli  their 
long  lines  of  out-buildings,  villages — these, 
all  interspersed  with  groves  of  the  pine  and 
the  olive,  creep  up  the  sides  of  the  hills,  or 
crown  the  lower  summits,  and  guide  the  imag- 
ination to  spots  of  loveliness  such  as  Dante's 
Beatrice  might  have  dwelt  in,  or  that  circle  of 
beauty  where  Boccacio's  tales  were  rehearsed  ; 
spots  of  loveliness  that  perfectly  enchant  the 
traveller,  and  half  persuade  him  that  his  senses 
have  been  imposed  upon  by  some  theatrical 
trick. 

When  I  say  that  the  whole  outward  aspect 
of  Florence  is  so  beautiful,  the  city  and  all  its 
environs,  almost  especially  its  environs,  the 
only  epithet  is  applied  to  it  by  \vhich  it  can 
be  truly  characterized  —  and  in  this  I  believe 
all  would  agree.  There  are  other  cities,  the 
effect    of   which    strikes    deeper,    and    whose 


WITHIN    THE     WALLS.  95 

monuments  arc  far  more  interesting,  such 
as  Rome  ;  and,  for  magnificence  and  vari- 
ety of  scenery,  Naples  is  unrivalled.  All  other 
places  must  strike  one  as  flat  and  prosaic  by 
the  side  of  that  imperial  capital — but,  for 
beauty,  there  is  nothing  like  Florence.  And 
not  only  beauty,  but  extreme  beauty  —  the 
beauty  of  a  belle,  of  a  belle  in  high  dress,  — 
whose  beauty  is  universally  acknowledged,  and 
universally  worshipped.  .  ^ 

Bat  upon  entering  the  city,  (having  pene- 
trated the  suburbs  and  passed  the  gates,)  w 
the  scene  which  you  had  been  contemplating, 
like  the  shifting  of  a  scene  at  a  theatre,  sud- 
denly changes,  and  the  beauty  by  which  you 
had  been  enraptured  appears  no  more.  The 
streets,  the  domestic  buildings,  the  churches, 
the  palaces,  are  anything  but  beautiful — pe- 
culiar, grand,  striking  —  many,  magnificent, 
but  it  would  be  quite  an  unallowable  use  of 
language  to  style  them  beautifid;  and  pretty  is 
a  word  that  cannot  be  used  within  the  walls 
of  Florence.  You  find  yourself  walled  in  as 
your  carriage   proceeds  and  penetrates  to  the 


96  FLORENCE. 

more  importniit  parts  of  the  city,  between 
rows  of  buildings,  whicli,  from  their  great 
lieight,  and  the  darkness  of  the  stone  of 
which  all  is  built,  and  the  massy  iron  grat- 
ings which  guard  all  the  windows  of  the 
lower  stories,  make  one  think  lie  must  be 
plunging  into  the  recesses  of  some  boundless 
prison.  All  wears  a  dark,  funereal  look.  The 
palaces  you  would  take  to  be  inquisitions  — 
the  convents  and  monasteries,  to  be  prisons  of 
state.  You  feel  that  you  have  travelled  back 
to  a  city  of  the  middle  ages,  the  greater  part  of 
which  retains  all  the  marks  of  those  ages. 
The  age  of  centuries  is  inscribed  all  over  the 
city  as  legibly  as  the  wrinkles  of  eighty  or  a 
hundred  years  upon  the  countenance  of  a  hu- 
man being.  Of  course,  as  an  American  who, 
at  home,  has  seen  nothing  more  venerable  than 
perhaps  some  moss-covered  shingle  fabric  of 
fifty  or  a  hundred  years'  standing,  you  look 
upon  all  with  an  intense  interest.  Now  and 
then,  a  building  or  a  street  may  present  in  the 
comparison  a  modern  aspect.  But  the  pre- 
vailing characteristics  will  be  height,  massive- 


WITHIN    THE     WALLS.  97 

ness,  blackness,  age.  If  you  remember  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's  novels,  as  perhaps  you  should,  you 
will  see  every  where  the  very  streets,  buildings, 
palaces,  she  has  so  often  described.  All  looks  as 
as  if  designed  for  attack  and  defence  —  as  if 
every  house  had  stood,  or  might  now  stand  a 
siege.  And  the  greater  part  have  many  a  time 
done  so.  Guelf  and  Ghibelin  blood,  the  blood 
of  democrat  and  aristocrat,  of  noble  and  com- 
moner, the  blood  of  civil  broil,  of  domestic 
feud,  of  midnight  assassination,  has  flowed  in 
the  streets,  in  the  prisons,  in  the  palace  cham- 
bers. Every  street,  every  building,  every  ^, 
apartment,  every  stone  has  its  history  of  cruel-  ; 
ty  and  blood,  of  liberty  or  tyranny,  of  heroism 
or  oppression. 

This  is  all  of  the  nature  of  corroborative 
evidence  to  those  who  remember  the  fierce 
collisions  that  occurred  in  Florence,  within 
the  walls  of  the  city,  so  many  times,  among 
the  political  and  personal  parties  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  their  wars  with  neighboring  states. 
It  is  highly  instructive  to  see  the  histories 
of  those  times  thus  written  over  again  in  the 


98  FLOUKNCE. 

aspects  and  forms  of  the  buildings.  You  can- 
not look  up  to  those  frowning  walls,  those 
iron-barred  windows,  those  windows  so  small, 
those  gratings  so  close  and  so  heavy  —  the 
long,  dark,  arched  passage-ways  winding  along 
from  palace  to  palace,  and  house  to  house, 
without  seeing  every  where  abundant  verifica- 
tion of  all  you  have  read  —  without  a  sense  of 
having  been  carried  backward  in  the  order  of 
time  to  the  days  of  Cosmo  the  First. 

There  are  no  palaces  for  a  dark  and  sombre 
magnificence  like  these  of  Florence.  If  one 
looked  no  higher  than  the  ground-floor,  he 
would  think  much  more  of  a  prison  than  of  a 
palace;  but  if  of  a  prison,  it  would  be  of  one 
for  the  incarceration  of  nothing  less  than  princes 
and  kings.  But  lifting  the  eye  upward,  and  no 
one  can  longer  doubt  that  he  is  examining 
the  residences  of  some  of  the  long  descended 
inheritors  of  the  power  and  wealth  of  Tuscany. 
They  have  about  them,  in  a  remarkable  de- 
gree, an  air  of  nobility.  The  forms  are  ex- 
tremely simple,  even  to  severity  ;  no  ornament 
which  seems  to  be  ornament  for  its  own  sake. 
The    architecture,  you  will  observe  too,  will 


THE    RICARDl     PALACE.  99 

have  all  the  parts  which  propeily  belong  to  it, 
but  beyond  that  not  a  line,  not  a  cnrve,  not  a 
moulding — nothing,  beyond  the   strictest  de- 
mands of  the  order ;  and  the  order  chosen  you 
will  find  for  the  most  part  to  be  the  simplest 
and  severest  of  all  the  five,  that  to  which  the 
country  has  given  its  name,  the  Tuscan.     I  do 
not  believe  there  is  a  more  impressive  building  ! 
in  Europe  than  the  Ricardi  Palace  in  Florence,  , 
the  ancient  residence  of  the  Medici  in  the  days  ' 
of  the  first  Cosmo,  and  Lorenzo.     It  preaches  \ 
like  a  sermon  ;  it  harangues  like  an  oration  ;  it 
inspires  like  a  poem.     I  came  upon  it  unex-  ^ 
pectedly  the  first  day  I  was  in  Florence,  and 
as  I  stood  beneath  its  black  walls  of  chiselled 
rock,  with  its  massive  overhanging  cornice,   I 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  power  of  architecture. 
And  yet  palace  though  it  be,   it  presents  but 
two,  sheer,  unbroken  fronts  on  the  corner  of 
two   streets  —  no  projections,  no  recesses,  no 
towers,  pediments,  columns,  piazzas, — two  sim- 
ple fronts  with  their  magnificent  cornice,  that 
is  all;  but  so  grand  are  the  proportions  of  all, 
as  if  Michael  Angelo  had  written  his  name  all 
over   it,  that,  for  true  sublimity,  it  far  surpasses 


100  FLOREXCE. 

all  otlicr  structures  tlicrc,  even  the  huge  Cathe- 
dral itself. 

Tliis  famous  Cathedral  —  the  Duomo,  begun 
in  the  thirteenth  century  by  Arnolfo,  and  fin- 
ished by  Bruneleschi  in  the  fourteenth,  is  very 
vast,  having  a  length  of  four  hundred  and  fifty, 
and  a  height  of  three  hundred  and  eighty-seven 
feet.  And  had  it  been  built  of  one  kind  of 
marble,  would  not  have  been  without  a  very 
grand  effect.  It  is  impressive  as  it  is,  espe- 
cially its  interior,  with  its  rich  painted  win- 
dows, rich  as  if  Titian  had  been  the  artist  — 
but  much  is  lost  to  the  exterior,  owing  to  its 
parti-colored  material,  being  made  of  marble 
in  alternate  layers  of  white  and  black  —  a 
childish  taste  of  tlic  age  in  which  it  was  built 
—  which  disfigures  many  otherwise  fine  build- 
ings both  there  and  in  Pisa,  and  notwith- 
standing its  great  size,  gives  to  the  church 
in  question  the  look  of  being  only  an  un- 
commonly large  toy.  Its  dome  is  considered 
its  great  glory  and  boast  —  and  with  reason  — 
there  had  been  nothing  like  it  before.  It 
was  in  point  of  time  before  St.  Peter's,  and 
served  as  its  model  to  Michael  Angelo,  who 


THE    DUOMO  CAMPANILE.  101 

was  never  satisfied  with  gazing  npon  it,  both  i 
with  admiration  and  a  feeling  of  despair  of  ever  l 
being    able   to  equal,  or  surpass  it ;  and  was  I 
accustomed  to    say    as    he    looked    up    to   it, 
"  Like  thee  1  will  not  build,  and  better  I  can- 
not,"—  yet    he  ended   in   building  both  like 
him,  and  better.     The  dome  of  St.  Peter's  is 
both    larger,  and  far  more  graceful  in  its  de- 
sign.    The  style  of  this  Cathedral  is  especially 
interesting,  as  it  marks  the  point  of  departure 
from   the   Greek  and   Roman   forms,   and   the 
introduction  of  the  modern  order  of  the  Gothic.  ^ 
It  is  of  a  mixed   character,  like  the  great  Ca- 
thedral at  Pisa,  (neither  wholly  the  one    nor 
wholly    the    other  —  the    new,  however,   pre- 
dominating very  decidedly)  —  and  which,  in  its 
more  completed  forms,  has  erected  the  noblest 
religious  buildings  in  the  world. 

Standing  near  the  west  front  of  the  Cathe-  ' 
dral,  there  rises  the  Campanile   or  Bell  Tower 
of  the  famous  Giotto,  one  of  the  most  graceful 
structures  in  existence  ;  a  square  tower  of  four    ^ 
lofty    stories    rising,    without   diminution,    to 
perhaps   two   hundred  and   fifty-eight  French 


102  FLORENCE. 

feet,*  every  part  most  profusely  enriched  with 
ornamental  sculpture  like  a  lady's  necklace. 
It  is,  like  the  Church,  of  black  and  white  mar- 
ble,  and  of  the  same  mixed  style. 
/  The  distinguishing  feature  of  the  Baptistery, 
by  which  it  is  commended  to  the  world,  is,  its 
Bronze  Doors  on  three  of  its  sides.  These 
doors,  cast  by  Ghiberti  as  long  ago  as  the  early 
part  of  the  fourteenth  century,  have  been  ob- 
jects of  wonder  to  all,  and  of  delighted  study 
to  tlie  artist,  from  that  day  to  this.  They  are 
thickly  overspread  with  Scripture  designs  from 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  in  small  oblong 
compartments  ;  all  the  frame-work  of  the  doors 
most  profusely  crowded  with  devices  of  flow- 
ers, fruits,  arabesques,  all  in  the  same  bold  re- 
lief—  so  bold,  (the  forms  often  standing  out 
nearly  detached  from  the  surface,)  as  to  trans- 
gress the  line  of  legitimate  relief  and  pass  over 
into  that  of  sculpture ;  which  seems  rather 
a  defect  than  otherwise,  when  the  limits  of 
any  art  are  not  duly  preserved,  but  one  feloni- 
ously trenches  upon  another,  when  relief  runs, 


*  The  French  foot  is  a  very  lillle  longer  than  the  English. 


BAPTISTER7.  t03 

in    this  way,  into    sculpture,  as  fresco  paint- 
ing oftentimes  into  relief.     These  are  the  doors 
which,  when  he  first  saw  them,  Michael  An- 
gelo  pronounced  "  Worthy  to  be  Gates  of  Para-  , 
disc."    And  for  exceeding  richness  and  variety  - 
of  decoration,  he  and  all  might  well  think  so. 
But  the  doors  themselves  want  size  —  and  do    ) 
not  hold  a  good  proportion  to  the  building. 

There  are  crowds  of  religious  buildings  in 
the  city,  churches,  convents,  and  monasteries, 
then  prisons,  hospitals,  and  so  on  —  the  church- 
es and  convents  commonly  connected;  every 
principal  church  on  its  side,  or  rear,  opening 
into  the  interior  squares  or  courts,  surrounded 
by  their  cloisters,  which  lead  away  into  the  ir- 
regular piles  of  often  uncouth,  but  always  most 
picturesque  masonry,   inhabited  by  the  various 
brotherhoods,  where  are  often   shown  to  the 
traveller  the  apartments  formerly  inhabited  by 
sons  of  Liberty  or  sons  of  God.     In  the  Con-  | 
vent  of  St.  Mark's,  for  instance,  is  shown  the  ', 
small  cell  of  that  martyr  to  liberty,  the  pious,  '; 
learned,    and    lion-hearted    Savonarola.      And  J 
in  the  same,  the  narrow  closet  where  dwelt,  » 
and  wrought,  the  saint-like  artist,  Beato  An- 


104  fi,okk.\(f:. 

gelico  —  the  walls  of  the  room  and  many  of  the 
corridors  adorned  by  drawings  of  his  devout 
pencil  —  an  artist  of  the  earliest  date  on  the 
revival  of  painting  in  Italy,  but  whose  merits 
are  confined  entirely  to  his  power  of  religious 
expression. 

His  was  the  power  in  fact,  not  of  art  but  of 
feeling.  Angelico  and  the  painters  of  that 
earliest  time  conld  hardly  be  termed  artists  in 
any  proper  sense.  They  painted,  not  becanse 
they  were  artists,  not  for  fame,  not  for  the 
sake  of  art,  not  because  they  felt  the  love  of 
beauty  strnggling  for  utterance,  or  because,  as 
artists,  they  knew  anything,  but,  simply,  be- 
cause they  were  religious  men,  and  felt  that 
there  was  still  one  way  more  left,  in  which 
they  might  glorify  God,  and  do  honor  to  Christ, 
and  the  cluu'ch.  That  was  their  inspiration. 
And  so  much  was  there  of  this  deep  religious 
feeling,  so  did  it  reveal  itself  in  the  counte- 
nances of  their  Christs  and  Apostles,  notwith- 
standing tlicir  ludicrous  deficiences  as  artists, 
that  one  cannot  even  now  look  upon  the  rude 
work  of  Beato  Angelico  or  Perugino  (half  a 
rentnry  later)  without  tears.     There  is  a  cru- 


BEATO    ANGELICO.  105 

cifixion  by  Perugino  in  the  Duke's  Gallery 
which  overwhelms  one  with  emotion  more 
than  one  would  believe  the  art  capable  of  do- 
ing, from  any  modern  examples  we  see  of  it  ; 
yet,  as  mere  art,  unworthy  the  least  attention  — 
all  ignorant  and  crude.  But  they  had  higher 
claims.  They  knew  how  to  feel,  and  to  paint 
with  the  soul,  rather  than  paint  at  the  end  of 
the  brush.  Their  heads  of  their  Christs,  Apos- 
tles, Angels,  are  sermons  and  prayers. 

Fashion,  and  a  sudden  access  of  enthusiasm 
in  Germany,  have  placed  Angelico  at  the  head 
of  Catholic  art  in  Europe  ;  and  quite  a  school 
names  itself  after  him,  at  the  head  of  which 
stands  Overbeck,  at  Rome,  a  man  of  precisely 
the  same  type  as  Angelico  ;  and  also  a  monk, 
converted  from  Lutheran  ism  to  Catholicism 
through  the  moral  power  of  Angelico's  art. 
And  great  good  may  come  of  it.  For  if,  upon 
the  higher  knowledge  and  more  correct  design 
of  their  modern  imitators,  there  should  be  su- 
perinduced the  feeling  of  the  old  monks,  a  form 
of  art  might  arise  that  should  eclipse  in  real 
merit  any  other  of  to  day ;    from  which  relig- 


106  FLORENCE. 

ious  feeling  seems  utterly  to  have  died  out. 
There  are  many  other  religious  buildings  in 
Florence  of  the  kinds  just  described,  to  which 
attaches  the  deepest  interest  for  their  treasures 
of  ancient  art  upon  their  walls,  and  their  associ- 
ations with  political  and  Christian  history. 
Structures  of  another  kind  in  Florence,  made 
famous  by  the  residence  of  remarkable  men, 
such  as  the  Medici,  Dante,  Michael  Angelo, 
Galileo,  possess  an  interest  of  the  highest 
kind  ;  and  not  a  building  of  that  sort  would  one 
omit  to  visit  and  explore,  if  time  —  that  sore 
trouble  to  the  poor  traveller  —  did  not  inter- 
pose its  ban.  One  only  will  I  notice  —  the 
family  mansion  of  Michael  Angelo,  built  by 
himself,  which  has  been  religiously  preserved 
unaltered,  and  is  at  tiiis  day  inhabited  by  one 
of  his  lineal  descendants,  a  Buonorroti,  an  act- 
ing counsellor  of  law  in  Florence.  It  is  an 
awkward  building  in  its  interior,  and  shows 
that  though  he  could  build  St.  Peter's,  he 
could  not  build  his  own  house.  The  principal 
story  consists  of  a  long  suite  of  apartments,  six 
or  eiaht  of  them  in  a  line,  of  various  dimen- 


THE  IMPERIAL  GALLERY.         107 

sions,  opening  into  each  other  by  small  doors, 
the  walls  and  ceilings  of  every  one  of  them,  in 
every  square  inch,  adorned  by  paintings  illustra- 
tive of  his  long  and  glorious  career ;  and  contri- 
buted by  his  admirers,  or  followers,  as  memen- 
toes of  affection  and  reverence.  Of  all  these 
apartments,  richly  decorated  as  they  are,  the 
most  lifelike  was  the  mere  closet,  six  or  eight 
feet  by  three,  furnished  only  with  a  fixed  chair 
and  a  fixed  table,  with  a  single  pane  of  glass  for 
light,  where  the  great  man  withdrew  for  study  ; 
where  he  wrote,  and  where  he  threw  off  those 
first  pencil  sketches,  the  original  conceptions 
of  his  mind,  which  were  then  elaborated  into 
those  famous  works  which  have  compelled  the 
admiration  of  successive  centuries,  and  made 
his  name  immortal. 

Art  almost  constitutes  Florence.  There  are 
three  grand  depositories  of  it.  The  principal 
is  that  of  the  Imperial  Gallery.  Rightly  styled 
imperial.  It  is  contained  in  a  very  extensiv^e 
building,  worthy  of  its.  builder,  Yasari,  the 
artist   and  the   author.     It   may  be  said,  that 


108  FLORENCE. 

there  is  no  cud  to  tlie  works  of  value  and  in- 
terest which  crowd  the  rooms  of  this  noble 
establishment.  In  sculpture  there  is  scarce  a 
Roman  emperor,  philosopher,  poet,  whose  bust 
or  statue  is  not  there,  raked  from  the  ruins  of 
Ancient  Rome,  or  other  overturned  city  of 
Italy.  And  beside  these,  statues  of  imaginary 
beings,  god  or  goddess,  dryad  or  hamadryad, 
satyr  or  faun,  with  which  the  imagination  of 
antiquity  teemed,  and  which  genius  expressed 
in  such  perfection  in  marble  or  bronze.  Such 
objects  adorn  the  sides  of  these  extensive  gal- 
leries. Opening  out  of  the  galleries,  in  their 
whole  length,  are  halls  and  saloons,  larger  and 
smaller,  where  are  deposited  the  chefs-d'oeuvre 
of  sculpture,  and  the  masterpieces  in  painting, 
from  the  first  ap[)earance  of  art  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  to  the  close  of  the  sixteenth, 
with  specimens  of  all  the  principal  schools. 

One  of  these  apartments,  of  especial  celeb- 
rity, named  the  Tribune,  most  lavishly  adorned 
Avith  marbles,  gilding,  and  mother  of  pearl,  has 
been  consecrated  to  a  very  few  of  the  most 
celebrated  works  in  marble  and  jiainting,  which 


THE    TRIBUNE.  109 

the  traveller  who  had  heard  or  read  of  it  ahnost 
from  his  youth,  enters  with  tlie  most  excited 
expectations.  But  they  are  expectations,  which, 
however  excited,  can  never  be  disappointed. 
There,  gracefully  disposed  about  the  tioor, 
stands  the  world-renowned  Venus  de'  Medici, 
the  Arrotino,  or  grinder,  a  perfect  piece  of  na- 
ture in  both  form  and  action,  and  might  stand 
as  well  for  Shakspeare's  Shylock  sharpening 
the  knife  for  Antonio's  side  —  near  these 
the  Young  Apollo  —  then  the  Wrestlers,  an 
antique  group  of  Greek  statuary  —  lastly,  the 
Dancing  Fawn,  the  head  and  arms  restored  by 
Michael  Angelo  —  a  marvellous  instance  of 
restoration,  going,  one  may  believe,  beyond 
the  original  conception  of  the  artist.  The 
parts  supplied  by  Michael  Angelo  are  in  such 
perfect  unity  of  expression  with  every  other 
part  of  the  statue,  that  even  though  one  should 
discern  the  fractures  where  the  new  members 
were  added,  he  would  suppose  them  at  once 
to  be  the  ancient  members  themselves,  fortu- 
nately discovered,  and  skilfully  re-annexed. 
In    truth,    the    peculiar    merit    of    the    figure 

10 


110  FLOKKNCE. 

will  be  seen  to  lie  in  the  action  of  the  head 
and  the  arms. 

To  the  first  of  the  statues  just  named,  as 
lending  its  chief  celebrity  to  the  Tribune,  and 
that  which  perhaps  would  be  termed  the  most 
perfect  piece  of  sculpture  in  tlie  world  —  the 
Venns  —  I  revert  for  a  few  moments.  This 
famous  statue,  ascribed  on  its  plinth  to  Cleo- 
menes,  but  subject  to  doubt,  was  discovered 
amongst  the  ruins  of  Hadrian's  Villa,  at  Ti- 
voli,  in  the  fifteenth  century  —  though  this  is 
also  disputed  ;  but,  what  is  certain,  is,  that 
whenever  and  wherever  found,  it  was  found 
broken  into  thirteen  or  fourteen  pieces ;  but 
every  fragment  there,  with  the  exception  of 
the  lower  portions  of  the  two  arms.  The  join- 
ing together  of  so  many  pieces  has  been  done 
with  such  extreme  skill,  that  no  imperfection 
is  perceptible  on  the  surface.  As  thus  restored 
and  completed,  whatever  may  have  been  lost 
of  the  original  perfection,  enough  remains  to 
substantiate  its  claims  to  the  reputation  of  the 
most  perfect  representation  existing  of  woman- 
ly beauty.     That,  I  suppose,  with   very  few 


THE    VENUS    De'  MEDICI.  Ill 

exceptions,  to  be  the  common  judgment.  I 
Every  eye  would  agree  in  pronouncing  the  \ 
form,  the  proportions,  the  contour  of  the  trunk 
and  lower  limbs,  not  only  faultless,  but  radiant 
with  a  loveliness  and  a  grace  certainly  nowhere 
else  to  be  seen,  nor  easily  to  be  imagined.  I 
The  figure  might  be  termed  perfect,  but  for 
the  head  and  the  arms.  The  head  is  thought 
too  small  to  be  in  good  proportion  to  the  body. 
But  this  is  not  very  observable.  The  position 
and  turn  of  the  head  are  graceful  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  countenance  is  characterized  by 
a  sort  of  doll-like  inanimate  beauty,  which 
detracts  greatly  from  the  pleasure  with  Avhich 
it  would  otherwise  be  viewed.  It  may  not  be 
said  to  be  devoid  of  expression,  but  the  ex- 
pression, such  as  it  is,  is  far  from  agreeable, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  posture  of  the 
hands  and  arms.  These  are  modern,  and  every 
way  defective.  But  their  attitude,  their  chief 
offence,  I  imagine  to  have  been  very  nearly  the 
original  one,  for  this  reason  —  it  is  but  a  con- 
jecture—  that  the  representation  of  Venus  in 
marble  seems  anciently  to  have  been  governed 


]  12  FLORENCE. 

by  a  set  of  conventional  ideas,  which  really- 
prescribed  the  manner  in  which  they  shonld  be 
placed.  Bnt  the  conjecture  is  made  somewhat 
more  plausible  by  the  fact  that  the  A'enus  of 
the  Capitol  at  Rome  has  precisely  the  same, 
more  than  one  also  in  the  Imperial  Gallery  at 
Florence,  and  in  the  Vatican.  But,  whatever 
may  be  the  account  of  this  posture,  whether  ori- 
ginally belonging  to  the  discovered  statue  or 
not,  what  I  would  say  is,  that  the  meaning  con- 
veyed by  the  attitude,  and  by  the  expression 
of  the  countenance,  is  not  the  same,  but  contra- 
dictory. They  do  not  correspond.  If  the  atti- 
tude, as  is  affirmed,  be  one  of  modesty,  the 
idea  is  refuted  by  the  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance, which  is  smirking  and  even  meritri- 
cious;  which  shows  the  posture  to  be  one  —  and 
there  can  be  no  greater  fault  in  a  work  of  art  — 
of  mere  affectation.  Were  the  posture  one  of 
genuine  modesty,  the  language  of  the  counte- 
nance would  necessarily  correspond ;  as  in  the 
Venus  of  the  Capitol,  where  the  attitude  is  the 
same,  but  the  expression  one  of  purity  and  dig- 
nity.   This  is  a  criticism  to  which  this  beautiful 


THE    VENUS    De'  MEDICI.  113 

work  is  fairly  open.     But  this  fault,  serious  as    i 
it  is,  cannot  deprive  it  of  its  divine  symmetry,  ; 
its   matchless    grace.      It   is    still  to  the    eye 
delighting   in    mere   form,  the  most  beautiful 
statue  in  the  world. 

While,  unfortunately,  it  was  necessary  to  re- 
store the  arms,  the  lower  limbs,  and  the  feet  es- 
pecially,  have  remained  wholly  uninjured,  and 
are  moulded  with  exquisite  art ;  the  only  defect 
that  even  seemed  to  exist  there  being  the  too 
great  roundness  of  the  arch  of  the  single  foot 
on  which  the  whole  weight  of  the  body  rests. 
It  may  be  more  beautiful  as  it  is  ;  but  it  is 
not  so  true.  The  weight  of  the  whole  body  ; 
being  upon  one  foot,  must  inevitably  spread  it, 
as  any  one  may  see.  But,  as  it  is,  it  has  all  the 
beautiful  roundness  of  a  foot  which  is  at  rest. 
But  whatever  defect  or  faint  blemish  may  be 
found  or  fancied  in  this  great  work  of  genius, 
it  is  lost  in  the  general  blaze  of  excellence  ; 
and  we  look  upon  it,  and  hang  over^it  as  lovers, 
with  untiring  admiration,  the  last  as  the  first, 
and  every  day  that  the  traveller  visits  the  gal- 
lery. Of  other  objects  of  art  he  may  tire  ; 
10* 


1  I  1  FLORE  NT  i:. 

but  he  returns  to  this  ever  with  fresh  interest, 
and  fresh  delight.  The  Yeniis  of  the  Capitol 
possesses  many  charms,  but  it  wants  that  name- 
less grace  Avliich  is  shed  over  her  Florence 
rival  —  a  grace  indescribable  and  incommuni- 
cable, but  none  the  less  certain  and  undeni- 
able —  like  that  which  pervades  so  many  of  the 
forms  of  Raffaelle  ;  like  that,  which  in  another 
department  of  art  —  lends  enchantment  to  a 
style  such  as  that  of  xYddison  or  Goldsmith  — 
a  style,  the  deliciousness  of  which  can  be  ac- 
knowledged and  felt  by  all,  Mobile  it  can  be 
copied  by  none. 

In  a  large  saloon  opposite  the  Tribune  is 
found  the  famous  group  of  Niobe  and  her 
children,  among  the  most  admirable  remains  of 
antiqnitj'-  —  a  group  comprising,  in  all,  sixteen 
statues.  These  statues  were  dug  up  in  some 
vineyards  in  Rome  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  the  soil,  for  once,  yield- 
ing a  richer  frui'  than  even  their  grapes. 
'J^hcy  are  rangr  i  around  the  large  hall  without 
order,  excep'  that  the  mother  is  at  the  head  of 
the  room,  and  the  children  diverge  from  her  on 


NIORE.  115 

either  side.  And  this  order  is  perhaps  as  good 
as  any  — as  good  as  that  which  has  been  con- 
jectured to  be  the  original  one  by  the  antiqna- 
ries  as  arranged  on  the  tympannm  of  a  temple. 
There  could  be  no  natural  order,  nnless  it 
shonld  be  one  of  a  wild,  confused,  crowded 
group  —  the  only  natural  order  of  sudden  and 
violent  death.  The  form  of  the  mother  —  one  of 
the  children  clasping  her  around  the  waist  —  is 
full  of  dignity  and  grace,  and  the  grief  depicted 
in  the  countenance  and  action  of  the  figure 
natural  and  atiecting,  without  the  least  ap- 
proach to  extravagance.  This  is  the  grand, 
presiding  form  of  the  group,  and  cannot  be  too 
much  admired.  But  when  you  have  duly 
admired  and  sympathized  with  the  mother  of 
the  fourteen,  you  look  but  coldly  on  the  dying 
children — although  in  nature  the  death  of  the 
young  is  so  much  more  moving  than  that  of  the 
old  —  first,  because  they  die  so  ostentatiously, 
and  because  the  call  for  so  much  sympathy,  in 
the  distress  of  each,  is  apt  to  repress  and  extin- 
guish the  whole,  just  as,  in  another  relation, 
caricature  is  so  apt  to  extinguish  humor.     But 


IIG  FLORENCE. 

Still  the  genius  of  the  artist  is  hardly  the  less 
indiisputable,  who,  in  the  countenances  and 
forms  of  so  many  persons,  all  dying  from  the 
same  cause,  could  invent  and  express  so  great 
a  variety  in  tiie  manner. 

Returning  for  a  few  moments  to  the  Tri- 
bune, the  most  famous  pictures  there  are  the 
two  Venuses  by  Titian.  These  remarkable 
works  possess  all  the  attributes  of  the  truest, 
richest,  most  natural  color  —  the  very  hues  of 
nature,  and  the  very  force  and  depth  of  nature 
—  attributes  which  invariably  distinguish  the 
work  of  the  great  Venitian,  while  these  par- 
ticular examples  of  his  art  do  no  sort  of  justice 
to  his  powers  of  expression,  which  oftentimes, 
equally  with  color,  mark  him  as  one  of  the  few 
first  artists  of  the  world.  But  obviously,  in 
the  present  instance,  the  aim  of  the  artist  was 
of  a  secondary  character,  that  is,  to  express  by 
the  pencil  the  most  exquisite  form  and  color 
which  it  was  in  the  power  of  art  to  elfcct  — 
the  most  perfect  imitation  possible  of  female 
beauty.  And  his  success,  tiiough  not  com- 
plete, was  such  as  could  have  been  achieved 


titian's  venuses.  117 

by  no  other  human  hand.  The  countenance 
in  each,  though  regular,  is  insipid,  but  pure,  in 
what  meaning  it  has.  Setting  this  aside,  and 
one  would  not  believe  the  united  resources  of 
color,  skill,  and  human  genius,  to  be  capable 
of  producing  the  results  which  dazzle  the  eye 
with  almost  more  than  the  splendors  of  nature. 
And  just  what  he  succeeded  in,  is,  I  conceive, 
not  the  greatest,  but  the  most  difficult  achieve- 
ment in  art  —  not  Herculeses,  Centaurs,  Lao- 
coons,  but  the  conception  and  expression  in 
line  and  hue  of  beauty.  Multitudes  may  con- 
ceive and  represent  the  one,  for  one  who  shall 
be  able  to  arrest  the  vanishing  hues  and  lines 
where  beauty,  the  highest  beauty,  dwells.  In- 
deed, one  might  as  reasonably  hope  for  art  to 
chisel  a  sunset,  or  paint  a  fragrance,  as  to 
depict  beauty  —  a  thing  too  ethereal  and  fleet- 
ing for  our  workmanship.  The  portrait  paint- 
er, though  he  be  Titian  himself,  Reynolds,  or 
AUston,  here  fails,  and  necessarily  fails.  I  sup- 
pose no  one  ever  saw  the  reigning  beauty  of 
the  hour  fitly  expressed  by  the  pain.ter  —  the 
whole  resemblance  caught,  while  a  Lady  Mac- 


118  FLOREXCE. 

both  —  tlie  stormy  and  tempestuous  —  is  easily 
rendered. 

In  the  same  apartment  there  are  several 
pictures  of  Raffaelle,  but  all  of  a  secondary 
rank,  except,  perhaps,  the  Fornarina,  with 
her  wooden,  un impassioned,  but  handsome 
face.  Two  of  the  Virgin  are  there  with  the 
children,  Christ  and  the  Baptist,  but  possessing 
little  interest  beside  the  fact  that  they  are 
indubitably  by  his  hand.  They  are  more  like 
portraits  of  some  very  uninteresting  ladies, 
than  like  the  woman  whom  we  should  wish 
to  name  the  mother  of  our  Lord.  In  all  of 
Raffaelle's  Virgins  there  is  the  same  obvious 
rfailure  in  the  head.  His  mind  never  seems  to 
have  risen  to  the  lofty  height  of  imagining  the 
countenance  which  became  the  mother  of  that 
wonderful  being  who  was  to  be  the  Saviour  of 
the  world.  He  paints  not  even  young  moth^^ 
ers,  which  Murillo  always  does;  —  they  are,  at 
most  and  best,  beautiful  young  women,  as  in 
the  Seggiola  of  the  Duke's  Palace  ;  but  noth- 
ing more ;  no  roligious  elevation,  no  peculiar 
sanctity,    no    holy   and    divine   abstraction  — 


MICHAEL  ANGELO's  MADONNA.      119 

no  prophetic  glancing  of  the  soul  into  the 
future.  This  was  reserved  as  the  task  of  a 
loftier  genius  than  even  the  divine  Raffaelle. 
There  hangs  a  picture  on  the  right  hand  of 
the  Venus  de'  Medici,  in  the  Tribune,  in  a 
large  circular  frame,  which  at  first  attracts 
no  attention  from  the  spectator,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  from  the  reddish,  monotonous  color, 
and  strange  arrangerfient  of  objects,  is  re- 
pulsive rather  than  otherwise.  But  on  a 
more  careful  scrutiny  you  find  that  a  great 
work  is  before  you.  A  single  figure  is  felt  to 
stand  out  at  length,  from  the  unattractive  can- 
vass, clear  and  distinct,  and  to  claim,  and 
compel  an  admiration  and  a  reverence  beyond 
all  others  on  the  same  subject.  It  is  a  picture 
of  the  Holy  Family,  by  Michael  Angelo,  one 
of  the  very  few  he  has  been  known  to  have 
painted  in  oil,  and,  like  so  many  of  his  works, 
left  unfinished.  The  figures  constitutiijg  the 
piece  are,  St.  Joseph,  the  Virgin,  the  young 
Christ,  and  several  other  children  and  per- 
sons in  the  middle  distance,  which  seem  to  be 
there  for  no  conceivable  reason,  except  to  con- 


120 


FLORENCE. 


fuse  the  subject.      But  all  this  is  of  no  moment 

—  the  whole  picture  is  in  the  Yh-gin  Mother. 
She  sits  as  in  solitude,  though  in  the  midst  of 
many ;  the  young  child,  with  one  arm  thrown 
around  her  in  an  endearing  manner,  soliciting 
attention  ;  —  but  she  heeds  him  not  —  still  she 
sits  alone  — raised,  apparently,  above  all  earth- 
ly objects  and  thoughts — her  face  turned  to 
heaven,  her  eye  looking  intently  upward  as  if 
it  reached  into  heaven; — yet  a  melancholy 
overspreads  the  face,  as  if  while  ra})t  out  of 
herself  by  the  moral  glory  of  the  unfolding 
ages,    there   was   not  concealed  from  her  heart 

—  a  prospect  in  the  distance  of  Calvary  and 
the  cross.  The  language  of  the  face,  while 
exalted,  is  also  truly  feminine  and  deeply  sad. 
It  was  to  me  incomparably  the  noblest  female 
head,  for  that  subject,  I  ever  saw  in  art,  and 
the  only  one  worthy  of  the  theme.  If  to  this 
most  remarkable  figure,  to  this  most  expressive 
face,  there  had  been  added  the  other  divin- 
ity of  beauty  —  for  beauty  would  not  have 
been  inconsistent  with  the  theme  —  and  that 
nameless  charm  of  color  which  gave  even  to 


HALL    OF     ORIGINAL    DRAWINGS.  121 

Raflaelle  such  additional  power,  but  whicii 
Michael  Augelo  almost  despised,  one  work  of 
art  would  have  been  the  result  to  which  the 
word  perfection  miglit  safely  have  been  ap- 
plied. 

There  are  many  other  rooms  in  this  royal 
collection  where  one  would  gladly  linger,  and 
in  each  one  dwell  at  length  on  many  a  work 
to  which  has  been  affixed  the  stamp  of  ages. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  and  valuable  of 
these  apartments  is  that  where  have  been  col- 
lected the  portraits  of  artists  of  all  ages,  coun- 
tries, and  schools;  and  which  have  usually 
been  contributed  each  one  by  himself  and  by 
his  own  hand.  Four  or  five  hundreds  hang 
upon  its  walls.  The  portrait  of  Rembrandt 
by  himself,  you  will  see  at  once  to  be  the 
v/ork  of  a  perfect  Titan  in  art. 

Another  hall,  possesses  a  yet  deejier  interest 
in  a  collection  of  original  drawings,  or  first 
sketches,  from  all  the  great  masters  of  Italy, 
gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  pre- 
served in  a  spirit  of  sacred,  almost  supersti- 
tious veneration,  and  now  exhibited,  though, 
11 


122  FLORENCE. 

on  only  very  special  a])i)lication  tiirough  con- 
suls or  ministers,  to  all  lovers  of  art.  They 
are  mounted  in  such  a  way,  with  such  scru- 
pulous regard  to  the  security  of  these  treasures, 
and  with  such  nice  mechanical  contrivance, 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  time,  and  hardly 
accident,  could  have  from  this  time  forward 
any  power  over  them ;  as  if  they  might  be 
freely  exhibited  for  ages,  without  the  slightest 
injury  to  lightest  lead  pencil  touch.  There 
one  may  see  the  first  thoughts  —  sometimes 
the  last  —  of  Leonardo  —  the  friar  Bartolomeo, 
Raflaelle,  Andrea,  INIichael  Angelo — uttered, 
in  sometimes  the  rudest,  most  hasty  manner, 
in  pencil,  pen  and  ink,  India  ink,  sepia,  in  any 
manner  and  by  any  instrument  nearest  at 
hand,  by  which  the  idea  that  crowded  into 
the  mind  could  be  quickest  expressed. 

The  collection  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts 
is  not  extensive,  nor  is  it  interesting  or  valua- 
ble, but  in  a  strictly  historical  point  of  view. 
In  that  light  it  is  interesting  and  instructive  ; 
invaluable  to  any  historian  of  art.     The  pur- 


ACADEMY  OF  THE  FINE  ARTS.       123 

pose  of  the  institution  was  to  present  on  its 
walls  an  unbroken  series  of  works,  from  the 
earliest  glimmerings  of  art  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, down  to  the  close  of  the  sixteenth.  The 
design  has  been  successfully  carried  out,  and 
there  are  few  artists  of  Tuscany  in  all  that  time 
who  are  not  represented  there  in  their  works. 
When  I  looked  at  the  earliest  pictures  of  those 
earliest  times,  appearing  like  the  drawing  and 
coloring  of  the  old  Egy)3tians  and  Mexicans, 
or  the  unskilful  daubings  of  children,  I  received 
new  impressions  of  the  reality  of  the  darkness 
of  the  dark  ages.  I  saw  how  all  that  had 
been  done  in  art  in  the  previous  ages  by  the 
Greeks,  &c.,  had  all  as  much  perished  out  of 
the  knowledge  and  memory  of  mankind  as  if 
it  had  never  existed  —  and  how  it  was  no  fig- 
ure of  speech  that  the  people  of  those  days 
had  just  awakened  from  the  sound  sleep  of 
centuries.  When  Cimabue  and  Giotto  first 
drew  and  painted,  they  were  as  ignorant  as 
our  North  American  savages  that  art  had  ever 
existed  before.  It  v\^as  not  till  tlie  accidental 
discovery  of  the  treasures  buried  in  the  soil  of 


124  FLORENCE. 

Rome  had  furnished  them  with  models,  and  it 
had  also  occurred  to  Giotto  to  make  copies  of 
his  own  sheep  and  goats,  that  art,  from  those 
two  sources,  received  for  the  second  time  its 
birth. 

The  collection  of  the  Grand  Duke,  with  the 
exception  of  that  at  the  Louvre,  is  probably 
the  finest  known.  It  is  contained  in  eighteen 
or  twenty  large,  magnificent  halls,  each  sump- 
tuously decorated  with  painted  ceilings,  costly 
furniture,  mosaic  floors.  To  give  an  idea 
of  the  regal  elegance  of  these  rooms,  and 
their  regal  cost,  I  will  state  a  familiar  item* 
of  a  circular  table  three  or  four  feet  only  in 
diameter,  the  cost  of  which  was  eighty  thou- 
sand dollars,  which  twenty-five  artists,  for 
twenty-three  years,  were  employed  in  making. 
But  another  fact,  far  more  interesting  and  beau- 
tiful than  this,  or  any  number  of  the  same  sort, 
is  the  princely  liberality  with  which  all  these 
magnificent  apartments  with  their  works  of  art 

*  Murray. 


GALLERY    OF    THE    PITTI    PALACE.  125 

are  thrown  open  to  the  whole  public,  without 
discrimination,  and,  what  is  unintelligible  in 
England  or  America,  without  charge.  Though 
the  expense  of  keeping  so  many  large  halls  al- 
ways open,  what  with  cleanings  and  repairings, 
and  the  nimiber  of  servants  to  keep  every  thing 
safe,  must  be  very  great,  and  the  trouble 
greater  than  the  expense,  still  all  is  open  and 
free  as  the  open  floor  of  a  Catholic  church. 
The  same  liberality  is  shown  in  respect  to 
admission  to  the  gardens  in  the  rear  of 
the  palace  —  all  is  open,  all  free.  So  ditierent 
this  from,  especially,  all  English  usage,  and 
which  goes  far  to  explain  the  ignorance  of,  and 
indifference  to  art  throughout  that  country. 
The  jjeople  there  cannot  see  any  of  the  art 
that  exists  in  England  ;  they  never  have  been 
able  to  see  it  ;  and  what  they  cannot  see 
they  can  know  little  or  nothing  about.  One 
could  not  see  the  art  in  England  —  and  there 
is  a  vast  deal  there  —  shut  up  as  it  is,  in  the 
exclusive  rooms  of  palaces  and  country  seats, 
without  an  expenditure  both  of  money  and  time 

that  could  be  afforded  only  by  persons  of  leisure 
11* 


126  TLORENXK. 

and  wealth.  A  single  gallery  has,  of  late  years, 
been  opened  to  the  public  for  free  admission  ; 
and  the  crowds  constantly  there,  show  how 
right  it  is  they  should  be  there.  I  hope  that 
our  cities  will,  for  their  imitation  in  all  such 
usages,  for  which  we  are  naturally  inclined  to 
go  to  England,  resort  not  there,  but  to  the 
more  genial  continent,  where  there  is  so  much 
more  of  that  open-hearted  liberality  which  a 
young  country  like  ours  may  better  adopt  as 
its  model.  What  a  pleasure  would  be  imparted, 
and  to  how  many,  if  our  Boston  Athenasum, 
and  the  other  corresponding  institutions  in  our 
sister  cities,  would  commence  a  new  era  by 
opening  to  all  citizens  indiscriminately  their 
annual  exhibitions.  If  one  great  object  of 
such  institutions  is  to  correct  and  elevate  the 
public  taste,  the  fee  which  is  exacted  upon  ad- 
mission totally  defeats  it  —  it  effectually  ex- 
cludes the  very  persons  and  classes  who  ought 
most  to  be  considered  —  ViMio  most  need  the 
softening  inlluences  of  tiie  place. 

But  numerous  and  precious  as  arc  the  works 
of  art  in  the  Pitti  Gallery,  they  cannot   be  even 


MADONNA    DEL    SEGGIOLA.  127 

named  here.  There  are  more  than  five  hun- 
dred upon  its  walls  and  catalogues,  each  a  work 
of  value,  for  either  its  name,  or  its  intrinsic 
worth.  Of  all  these  works  I  can  mention 
but  one  —  the  small  round  picture,  not  eigh- 
teen inches  in  diameter,  by  Raflaelle,  called 
the  Madonna  del  Seggiola  —  representing  the 
mother  and  the  two  children,  Christ  and  the 
Baptist.  This  is  a  picture  which  all  have  seen 
in  engravings;  but  it  is  a  great  gratification  to 
see  tlie  original  work  of  Ralfaelle  by  his  own 
hand.  Of  copies  in  oil,  which  abound  all  over 
the  world,  I  never  saw  a  more  valuable  one, 
on  every  account,  than  that  which  has  just 
been  seen  in  the  xlthcnaum  Gallery.*  Many 
are  so  wretchedly  done  as  hardly  to  bring  to 
mind  the  original.  Between  this  and  the 
original  it  might  be  difficult  to  discriminate, 
but  for  the  indubitable  marks  of  age  on  the 
one.  As  a  composition,  this  work  may  well 
be  regarded  as  faultless  ;  truth  and  nature  in 
the  action,  beauty  of  form,  grace  of  outline, 
rich  and  harmonious  arrangement  of  color,  con- 


*  In  the  possession  of  Mr.  Patterson. 


128  rLORF.NCE. 

spire  to  throw  over  this  famous  picture  a  charm 
hardly  surpassed  by  any  other  in  existence. 
The  two  children  are  more  than  beantiful. 
There  is  in  the  young  Christ  especially,  in  the 
mysterious  eye,  a  power,  which,  though  most 
truly  belonging  to  the  countenance  of  a  child, 
atfects  and  snl)dues  the  observer,  as  if  it  were 
the  Christ  not  of  the  infancy,  but  of  the  Mount 
of  Olives,  or  the  Transfiguration.  The  virgin 
mother  possesses  a  most  delicate  beauty,  which 
Raffaelle's  virgins  often  do  not,  but  the  face 
has  no  other  merit ;  the  eyes  are  cast  down, 
and  the  features  mean  no  more  than  maternal 
sweetness.  But  within  that  small  circle  of  a 
few  inches,  how  is  there  not,  for  the  artist,  an 
illustration,  in  their  perfection,  of  every  prin- 
ciple of  the  art  of  painting  !  It  is  the  art 
itself  in  its  totality. 

In  nearly  the  last  room  of  this  extensive 
range  stands  Canova's  Venus,  in  Carrara  marble 
—  a  work  of  grace  and  elegance,  the  whole 
well  conceived,  and  the  forms  of  the  limbs  and 
drapery  naturally  modelled.  It  lias  been  ac- 
cused of  having  a  French  air  about  it  —  par- 


CANOVa's    VENUS.  129 

ticnlarly  in  the  too  careful  dressing  of  the 
hair  —  and  the  time  chosen  being  just  about 
entering  or  leaving  the  bath,  the  condition  of 
the  hair  in  either  case  strikes  one  as  at  least 
inappropriate.  Otherwise  I  observed  no  ex- 
travagance or  excess  ;  though  in  many  of  his 
works  there  was  a  want  of  simplicity,  an  ap- 
pearance of  affectation,  in  short,  which  dis- 
pleased. Mr.  Powers  made  a  general  remark 
upon  Canova,  Avhich  agreed  Avith  my  previous 
ideas  of  him,  and  seemed  borne  out  in  this 
particular  case  —  which  was,  that  he  was 
particularly  inclined  to  carry  to  exaggeration 
any  lines  of  beauty  or  grace  that  gave  him 
especial  pleasure.  Which  he  exemplified  in  this 
statue.  The  Yenus  de'  Medici  turns  her  head 
towards  her  left  shoulder  just  enough  to  avoid 
stiffness,  to  give  life  and  grace  to  the  form, 
and  not  a  line  farther  than  would  consist  with 
perfect  truth.  Canova,  he  said,  struck  Avith  this 
beauty,  gives  to  his  Yenus  the  same  turn  of  the 
head;  but  in  the  endeavor  to  make  it  yet  more 
beautiful  than  in  the  original,  turns  it  farther 
in  the  same  way,  so  far  as  to  bring  the  head  at 


130  FLORENCE. 

right  angles    M'itli  tlic    body  —  an    impossible 
position  in  nature. 

Having  introduced  the  name  of  Mr.  Powers 
here,  I  will  close  with  a  notice  of  one  of  his 
Avorks  —  his  Greek  Slave.  In  his  studio  I 
saw  that  most  lovely  conception,  the  Proser- 
pine, M'itli  which  you  are  all  acquainted ;  the 
Fisher  Boy,  pretty,  but'  hardly  more ;  the  lion 
head  of  old  Jackson,  true  as  truth  ;  the  demo- 
niac head  of  Calhoun,  equally  true,  I  believe  ; 
the  clay  model  of  Eve,  which  many  prefer  to 
the  Slave,  and  a  marble  copy  of  the  Greek 
Slave,  nearly  finished,  and  which  has  since 
been  exhibited  throughout  the  country.  On 
seeing  this  last  work,  I  was  in  no  way  disap- 
pointed. I  had  then  seen  the  Venus,  and  all 
the  Greek  sculjiture  in  the  Imperial  Gallery, 
and  the  Venus  of  Canova  —  still  I  was  satis- 
fied. I  even  searched  for  defects,  failures, 
but  could  find  none  —  for  obvious  beauties, 
they  were  there  without  the  searching.  In  con- 
tour, proportion,  exquisite  symmetry  and  grace, 
nothing  of  modern  workmanship  can  be  more 
admirable.      It  must  demand  tlio  eye  of  a  most 


THE    GREEK    SLAVE.  131 

exact  anatomist,  and  of  a  most  slciltul  mechanic, 
to  see  where  the  form  fails  of  its  just  shape  in 
muscle  or  limb,  or  where  the  chisel  fails  in  any 
point  of  the  most  careful  workmanship.  I 
have  seen  the  female  form  of  a  more  noble 
and  majestic  bearing,  of  a  more  queenly  ele- 
gance, of  a  more  goddess-like  dignity  ;  but  for 
moving  beauty,  the  sort  of  beauty  that  makes 
a  Venus,  one  must  doubt  whether  in  modern 
statuary  it  has  been  surpassed.  The  head,  as 
in  tlie  Venus,  bends  toward  the  left,  as  if,  we 
may  suppose  in  the  present  case,  turning  away 
from  the  common  gaze.  And  the  only  change 
it  has  ever  occurred  to  me  to  wish  for,  has  been, 
that  at  the  same  time  the  head  turned  aside,  it 
should,  for  the  same  reason  that  it  turned  aside, 
have  been  slightly  bent  downwards,  with  the 
eyes  a  little  more  depressed.  That,  I  believe, 
would  have  added,  at  least,  to  an  expression 
which  it  is  very  commonly  accused  of  wanting. 
For  myself,  it  strikes  me,  as  it  is,  to  be  full  of 
expression  —  of  sensibility  to  all  the  painfnlness 
of  her  position  and  destiny  —  still,  as  it  should 
be,  a  restrained  sensibility.     Who  has  not  seen, 


132 


FLORENCE. 


at  least  wlio  cannot  imagine,  a  countenance, 
ready  to  burst  forth  with  suppressed  tears  and 
sighs,  yet  wliich  do  not  burst  forth,  and  there 
is  hardly  an  outward  sign,  save  to  a  very  sympa- 
thizing heart,  of  the  tumult  and  agony  within. 
There  is  but  slight  visible  sign  of  pain  on  the 
Slavic's  placid  face,  but  it  always  seems  as  if 
tears  would  flow  if  marble  could.  It  appears  to 
me  there  is  perhaps  as  much  manifestation  of 
expression  on  the  countenance  as  could  be  put 
into  marble,  \vithout  doing  more  damage  to 
the  beauty  of  the  crcatiu'e  than  it  could  add  of 
interest  or  force  to  its  expressiveness.  I  think 
we  are  here  to  remember  the  diff'erence  be- 
tween painting  and  sculpture.  Those  delicate, 
refined  shades  of  meaning  which  you  find  in 
such  heads  as  those  of  Guercino  or  Rallaelle, 
are  not  possible,  I  imagine,  in  marble.  It  is 
most  essential  that  emotions  of  grief  and  pain 
should  not  be  stamped  too  strongly  upon  the 
unchangeable  stone.  It  could  only  serve  more 
to  repel  than  attract.  Niobe  and  her  children 
suffer  and  weep,  but  they  express  too  much; 
all  is  too  visible  ;  they  suffer  with   too  much 


THE    GREEK    SLAVE.  133 

exhibition  of  what  is  suflered.  With  more 
repression,  there  would  have  been  a  more  true 
and  moving  expression  —  more,  not  less,  sym- 
pathy, would  be  excited  in  others.  I  saw 
in  Florence  the  group  of  a  mother  and 
child.  The  child  had  been  just  rescued  from 
the  water,  and  lay  dead  on  the  mother's  lap. 
But  the  language  of  the  countenance  of  the 
mother,  true  as  it  was  to  the  minutest  line,  was 
all  too  true  to  be  witnessed  without  too  much 
pain.  Just  as  it  is  iu  real  life.  Grief  in  excess 
should  not  be  seen ;  and  if  seen,  never  moves, 
like  the  deep,  settled  sadness,  Avhich  has  left  its 
lines  not  in  any  change  or  distortion  of  feature, 
but  in  those  ineffaceable,  deep-sunk  footsteps  of 
pain,  which  show  that  the  soul -^  not  so  much 
the  body  —  is  convulsed  with  agony  to  its 
centre. 

The  most  refined  and  delicate  invention  is 
displayed  in  the  falling  of  the  left  hand  with 
the  double  chain.  The  hair,  after  the  Greek 
manner,  divides  over  the  forehead,  and  gathers 
into  a  tuft  or  club  behind,  which  seems  too 
12 


134  FLORENCE. 

large  for  beauty.  The  limbs,  the  hands  and 
feet,  seem  to  be  without  fault. 

The  genius  of  Powers,  it  is  said,  and  his 
peculiar  eminence,  are  shown  in  the  extreme 
delicacy  and  fineness  of  his  finish.  They  are 
shown  there,  certainly,  but  elsewhere  as  well. 
Whether  he  will  continue  to  advance  in  his 
art  —  whether  he  will  go  on  to  manifest  fer- 
tility, rapidity,  variety  in  his  invention,  and 
execution,  it  must  remain  for  time  to  deter- 
mine. At  present,  all  that  can  be  said  is, 
there  is  the  promise  of  it. 

Our  distinguished  countryman,  Greenough, 
I  found*  engaged  u])on  a  colossal  work  for  the 
Capitol  at  Washington.  It  was  to  consist  of  a 
group  of  figures,  four  in  number,  to  corres- 
pond in  size  and  position  with  one  by  Persico, 
already  in  place.  Only  two  of  the  four  statues 
were  as  yet  commenced  in  the  marble  ;  those, 
as  I  should  judge,  nearly  completed.  As  far 
as  the  work  had  proceeded,  it  promised  all  that 
his  friends  or  the   country  could  desire.     Its 

*  Summer  of  1843. 


MR.   GREENOUGH. 


135 


design,  truly  national,  seemed  to  express  alle- 
gorically  the  triumph  of  American  civilization, 
in  the  forms  of  an  American  Anglo-Saxon  sub- 
duing an  Indian  ;  and  the  forms,  nearly  fin- 
ished, of  the  savage  and  the  backwoodsman, 
the  white  man  violently  restraining  the  Indian, 
appeared  to  be  done  with  the  greatest  truth 
of  conception,  and  the  finest  dramatic  effect. 

Another  of  our  artists  I  found  at  Florence, 
Mr.  Ives,  who  was  engaged  both  upon  statues 
and  busts.  He  was  just  finishing  a  Cupid  of 
great  beauty  and  variety  in  the  accessories, 
and  must,  when  completed,  make  him  most 
favorably  known  to  the  country. 

I  cannot  leave  this  subject  without  express- 
ing a  regret  that  so  many  of  our  artists,  paint- 
ers and  sculptors,  but  particularly  our  sculptors, 
separate  themselves  as  they  do  from  their  own 
country,  and  in  fact  become  foreigners  by  long 
residence  abroad.  There  seems  to  be  no  suffi- 
cient reason  —  at  least,  so  far  as  their  art  is  con- 
cerned—  for  this  entire  expatriation.  It  may 
be  a  pleasure  and  a  luxury  to  reside  in  such 
cities  as  Rome  and  Florence  ;  but  it  can  scarce 


136 


FLORENCE. 


be  Otherwise  than  injurious  to  the  interests 
of  art  at  home.  In  some  respects,  and  for  a 
brief  period,  a  residence  abroad  may  be  useful; 
na)'-,  essential  to  the  artist  himself.  lie  needs 
education  and  a  teacher;  and  models  in  marble 
can  be  had  only  iu  the  capitals  of  Europe  ;  in 
the  living  man,  however,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered —  the  true  model  —  every  where.  Five 
years  may  be  needed  for  such  objects.  But  let 
the  residence  of  the  young  artist  be  prolonged 
much  beyond  tliat  period,  and  tliough  it  may  be 
true  that  the  taste,  and  power  of  critical  discrim- 
ination, might  be  improved  by  longer  absence, 
it  must  be  more  than  doubtful  whether  more 
would  not  be  lost  than  gained  on  the  score  of 
original  conception,  and  execution.  It  cannot  be 
wholesome  to  the  mind  to  be  forever  in  the  pres- 
ence of  artificial  models  of  perfection.  Such  a 
one  will  become  a  slavish  copyist ;  that  will  be 
the  reasonable  apprehension.  At  least  his  sub- 
jects will  be  exclusively  selected  from  the  class 
of  objects  always  before  him.  A  visit  to  the 
modern  studios  of  Rome  and  Florence  will 
convince  any  one  of  this.     They  are  crowded 


AMERICAN    SCULPTOUS.  137 

Avith  copies  of  Greek  and  Roman  works.  The 
American  student,  though  he  arrives  there  from 
a  fresh,  new  country,  will  not  be  able  to  with- 
stand the  tendency  of  all  about  him  ;  he  will 
do  as  the  rest  do ;  and  devote  his  time  and 
genius  to  Apollos,  Dianas,  Venuses,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  those  living  themes  from  actual  life, 
and  incidents  of  our  own  history,  which  might 
kindle  a  new  enthusiasm  and  inspire  to  more 
original  works.  Not  by  any  means  that  the 
beautiful  fables  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
mythology  should  be  utterly  forborne ;  not 
that  Orpheus,  even  at  this  late  day,  should  not 
again  descend  in  search  of  the  long-lost  Eury- 
dice  —  for  even  the  oldest  theme  may  become 
new  in  the  treatment  of  a  man  of  genius  — 
but  that  the  constant  presence  of  the  Antique, 
and  daily  worship  at  her  shrine,  must,  as  the 
rule,  tend  to  generate  a  dull  and  slavish  turn 
of  mind  —  all  within  the  limits  of  the  most 
refined  taste,  but  emasculated  by  the  absence 
of  every  thing  like  a  vigorous  originality. 
It  is  pleaded  that  marble  cannot  be  found  in 

America.     But   it   is   imported  at  no   ruinous 
12* 


138  FLORENCE. 

enhancement  of  tlie  original  cost  ;  and  in  no 
long  time,  when  it  is  known  that  a  purer  article 
is  wanted,  it  will  be  found.  The  fine  grain  of 
the  Carrara  marble  is  by  no  means  the  most 
desirable,  especially  for  some  works.  The 
coarser  grain  of  the  Parian  is  preferable  ;  and 
its  delicate,  creamy  tint,  more  agreeable  than 
the  chalk  white  of  the  Italian.  There  is  quite 
a  wide  range  of  qualities,  both  in  color  and 
grain,  suited  to  the  sculptor,  and  it  would  be 
wonderful  indeed,  if,  throughout  our  vast  inte- 
rior, a  native  stone  were  not  soon  discovered, 
that  would  prove  perfectly  adapted  to  any 
kind  of  work  required.* 

Workmen  competent  to  complete  a  statue  at 
present,  there  are  not  :  but  were  our  sculptors 
here  on  the  spot  to  create  the  demand,  enough 
would  be  found,  with  the  briefest  instruction, 
equal  to  all  the  detail  of  the  most  delicate 
finish.  There  arc  hundreds  of  mechanics  in 
marble  work  in  Boston,  New  York  and  Phila- 


*  Vermont  is  almost  composed  of  marMe.  And  one  may  hope 
that  the  Kiuland  lload,  just  completed,  which  finds  Boston  brick, 
may  leave  it,  in  not  many  years,  marble. 


AMERICAN    SCULPTORS.  139 

delphia,  familiar  already  with  the  use  of  the 
most  delicate  chisel  in  executing,  if  not  often 
the  human  form,  yet  flowers,  fruits,  arabesques, 
architectural  devices,  capitals  and  mouldings, 
Avith  a  skill  that  at  once,  under  the  instruction 
of  an  accomplished  statuary,  could  be  trans- 
ferred to  statues,  groups,  heads,  drapery,  and 
every  other  more  dilRcult  part  of  the  art.  An 
American  stone-cutter  to-day  may  rise  up  a 
statuary  to-morrow.  A  power  of  rapid  adap- 
tation is  a  national  trait.  But  if  I  should  be 
wrong  here,  and  native  workmen  could  not  be 
procured,  the  low  prices  of  labor  in  Rome  and 
Florence  would  enable  them  to  be  imported  in 
any  number,  and  of  any  character  desired,  to 
whom  American  wages  Avould  prove  wealth. 

The  American  sculptor,  resolving  to  return 
to  his  country  and  plant  himself  on  her  soil, 
and  entrust  his  fortunes  to  her,  might  make 
some  immediate  sacrifice  in  the  loss  of  the 
society  of  those  of  his  own  profession  in  the 
great  European  capitals.  He  might  feel  here 
out  of  the  atmosphere  of  art,  and  as  if  he 
could  not  breathe.     But  mv  belief  is,  that  as  far 


140  FI.nUKNCE. 

as  that  should  not  prove  to  be  an  imaginary 
loss,  an  art  atmosphere  would  soon  be  created 
at  home,  by  the  removal,  and  residence  in 
America,  of  all  our  artists,  in  which  as  vigorous 
an  existence  might  be  passed  as  in  Italy. 
Let  these  gentlemen  establish  themselves  in 
some  one  of  our  cities,  not  driven  asunder 
by  trivial  and  ignoble  jealousies,  but  united 
by  one  spirit  of  devotion  to  the  great  inter- 
ests of  high  art,  and  contending  with  each 
other  only  in  the  race  of  a  perfectly  hon- 
orable competition  for  the  noble  prizes  of 
his  profession,  let  them  mingle  freely,  as 
they  would,  with  the  best  literary  and  gen- 
eral society  of  our  capitals,  becoming  known 
personally  as  well  as  through  their  works 
—  and  an  interest  would  be  awakened,  I  am 
sure,  in  the  whole  subject  of  art,  but  par- 
ticularly in  sculpture,  that  would  lead  to  the 
happiest  results  ;  an  enthusiasm  would  arise 
that  would  crowd  conversation  \vith  a  wholly 
new  set  of  topics,  and  give  a  new  and  higher 
direction  to  that  passion  for  elegant  indulgence 
and    costly   expenditure,    which  will    find   its 


AMERICAN    SCULPTORS.  141 

gratification  somewhere,  if  not  in  art  or  lite- 
rature, then  in  dinners,  suppers,  upholstery, 
dress,  equipage.  As  long  as  these  gentle- 
men are  hidden  from  the  country  by  the  thick 
veil  which  hides  all  from  Europe,  and  not  a 
sculptor  is  to  be  met  in  society,  nor  a  studio  to 
be  visited,  where  thoughts  and  feelings  can  be 
exchanged  on  the  subject  of  his  art,  there  can 
be  neither  knowledge  nor  enthusiasm  on  the 
subject.  This  foreign  absenteeism  kills  know- 
ledge and  enthusiasm.  He  who  really  has  at 
heart  the  progress  of  a  particular  branch  of  sci- 
ence or  art  in  a  certain  country  or  district,  goes 
there,  and  advocates  the  cause  by  his  presence, 
his  speech,  and  his  works.  Not  only  would 
their  mere  presence  and  conversation,  in  the 
case  of  artists  of  cultivated  minds,  and  the 
frequent  resort  to  their  studios,  tend  rapidly 
to  generate  a  taste  for  this  particular  art,  but 
a  desire  to  possess  what  began  to  be  so  much 
honored  and  prized,  would  advance  with  equal 
pace,  and,  before  the  workmen  could  be  pro- 
cured, a  demand  for  finished  works  would 
arise,  more  than  could  be  answered.     Remain- 


142  *  FLORENCE, 

ing  buried  in  Europe,  nothing  of  the  kind 
could  take  phicc. 

Only  let  it  be  understood  that  such  men  as 
I  refer  to  had  returned  to  their  country,  ready 
and  desirous  to  execute  the  orders  that  might  be 
entrusted  to  them,  and  not  only  private  individ- 
nals  of  wealth  and  taste  would  contend  for  the 
privilege  of  precedency  in  obtaining  works 
from  their  hand,  but  sovereign  states,  as  in  the 
best  days  of  the  Greek  Republics  would  appear 
by  their  ambassadors,  or,  in  humbler  phrase, 
business  agents,  as  solicitors  for  their  talent. 
It  needs  nothing  but  their  personal  presence  to 
give  an  impulse  to  our  legislatures  through- 
out the  Union  to  decorate  our  thirty  halls 
of  Govenmient  with  specimens  of  American 
sculpture.  Every  commonwealth  would  soon 
demand  its  great  historical  men  in  marl)lc.  A 
rivalry  throughout  the  country  would  spring 
np,  that  would  contend  for  the  best  artist  and 
work  of  the  highest  mark. 

Sculpture  should  help  to  dignify,  and  soon 
it  will  do  so,  all  our  })ublic  buildings.  As 
once  in  Athens  and  throu2:hout  Greece,  it  will 


AMERICAN    SCULPTORS.       ^'  143 

not  be  private  wealth  so  much  as  that  of  the 
State  that  will  honor  itself  by  leaving  every- 
where proofs  of  an  exalted  and  elegant  taste, 
as  well  as  of  intelligence  in  the  administra- 
tion of  public  affairs.  No  piece  of  architecture 
is  complete,  and  so  it  will  be  thought,  without 
its  sculpture  in  statue,  and  bust,  or  relief  in 
marble,  or  brass.  The  pillar  requires  its  capital 
of  acanthus  leaves  ;  the  building,  its  ornamen- 
tal frieze,  its  statues  and  reliefs  without,  its 
histories  and  allegories  within.  The  nation 
has  lately  here,  in  our  capital  of  Massachu- 
setts, erected  a  Custom  House  of  more  than 
Egyptian  solidity,  and  of  almost  classic  beau- 
ty ;  at  any  rate,  of  perfect  and  permanejit 
material  and  workmanship  ;  but  it  is  still  unfin- 
ished ;  naked  and  bare  —  and  will  remain  so 
till  adorned  with  its  significant  illustrations  in 
marble  or  bronze.  Massachusetts  and  Virginia 
have,  each,  her  Washington,  but  both  by  the 
hands  of  foreign  artists.  Louisiana  has  just 
called  for  her  Washington  from  the  chisel  of 
Powers.  Virginia  is  about  to  erect  a  sepul- 
chral monument  to  the   same   great   name   at 


144  FLOKKNCE. 

Richmond,  and  in  Crawford  has  Ibund  a  design 
and  an  artist.  South  Carolina  lias  jnst  obtained 
a  statue  of  Calhoun  from  the  hand  of  Powers. 
These  are  hut  the  beginnings  of  an  interest  in 
an  art  w^hich  is  destined  to  extend,  and  that  not 
slowly,  over  the  whole  country.  But  wheth- 
er this  shall  take  place  earlier  or  later,  or  almost 
at  all.  will  depend  upon  the  ])resence  or  the 
absence  of  our  native  artists.  In  England,  I 
believe,  there  would  be  sculpture  as  well  as 
painting,  had  her  sculptors  resided  there. 
Let  ours  reside  and  work  in  Europe,  and  they 
will  be  Europeans  —  nor  can  a  school  of  Amer- 
cian  art  arise. 

But  as  my  subject  has  brought  me  round 
again  to  my  own  country,  I  will  close  here, 
adding  only  that  the  fnie  arts,  though  holding 
but  an  humble  rank  in  the  scale  of  merit  of 
the  mere  utilitarian,  holds  a  much  higher  one, 
and,  I  will  add,  juster  one,  in  the  scale  of  the 
man  of  good  common  sense,  as  well  as  in  that 
of  the  mere  lover  of  the  beautiful.  I  cannot 
but  think,  that  the  love  and  study  of  these  arts 


AMERICAN    SCULPTORS.  145 

must  be  followed  by  useful  influences  on  hu- 
man character  generally,  and  especially  are  its 
elevating  and  refining  influences  needed  on 
our  American  character,  and  for  this  reason,  if 
for  no  other,  ought  to  be  cherished. 

And  in  respect  to  the  intrinsic  dignity  of  the 
pursuit  of  these  elegant  arts,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  ;  they  never  can  be  disparaged  or  neg- 
lected, while  it  shall  be  remembered  that  it 
is  God  himself  who  has  first  created  the 
objects,  which  man,  honorably  to  himself, 
employs  himself  in  imitating.  That  must  be 
both  a  worthy,  and  even  religious,  avocation, 
which  is  only  working  and  walking  in  the, 
footsteps  of  Almighty  God. 


13 


NAPLES, 


NAPLES. 


Our  associations  with  Naples  are  with  all 
that  is  beautiful  and  magnificent  in  scenery, 
soft  and  delicious  in  climate,  luxurious  and 
corrupt  in  society,  despotic  in  government, 
ignorant  and  superstitious  in  letters  and  reli- 
gion. You  look  for  few  gratifications  there, 
except  such  as  shall  be  deriv^ed  from  the  eye 
alone.  You  visit  Naples  as  you  go  to  a  show 
—  not  for  its  moral  interest.  You  care  little 
for  its  history.  You  cannot  remember  its 
great  men,  its  famous  kings,  its  great  deeds, 
its  philosophers,  poets,  and  artists.  You  go 
to  seek  the  enchantments  of  its  scenery,  tlie 
uproar  of  its  carnival,  its  ballet  dancers  of  San 
Carlo,  its    theatres,  balls  and  ices.      Florence 

and  Rome,  far  inferior  in  the  number  of  their 
13* 


150  NAPLES. 

iiilialiitaiits,  and  in  commercial  importance, 
oiitweiali  it  a  tliousandfold  in  their  hold  upon 
the  mind.  In  cither  of  those  places  you  can- 
not avoid  becoming  more  or  less  of  a  student. 
They  not  only  put  you  severely  upon  your 
recollections,  they  drive  you  to  your  histories, 
your  languages  and  your  dictionaries  ;  and  with 
all  your  labor,  you  arc  often  cornered  and  at 
fault.  These,  to  be  well  seen  and  understood, 
require  months  or  years.  A  week  of  good 
weather  will  serve  for  Naples  ;  except,  perhaps, 
on  the  part  of  some,  for  its  operas  and  ballets. 
Though  you  have  many  faults  to  find  with  the 
character  of  the  people  in  the  other  cities  of 
Italy,  even  those  I  have  just  named  —  but 
much  more  to  love,  ])ity  and  regret,  for  all 
you  disapprove  —  in  Naples  there  is  nothing 
to  i)raise.  Of  the  dignity  of  Rome  not  a  word 
need  be  said.  You  are  ready  to  bow  down 
before  it  in  remembrance  of  its  long  and. 
crowded  history  of  its  early  patriotism,  and 
its  later  genius.  And  Florence,  you  can  think 
of  no  more  slightly  than  of  another  Greece 
and  a  second  Athens.     But  the  most  and  the 


GENERAL    CHAKACTER.  151 

best  you  have  for  Naples,  is  to  style  it,  with  a 
shudder,  a  modern  Sybaris.  One  can  hardly 
be  a  day  in  that  place,  but  he  will  be  com- 
pelled to  draw  inferences  to  the  moral  corrup- 
tion reigning  there,  of  which  that  old  Lueanian 
capital  might  have  felt  proud.  But  while  it 
richly  deserves  all  the  bad  repute  which  it  has 
for  its  badness,  it  cannot  pretend,  I  suppose,  in 
respect  to  wealth,  elegance,  and  refinement,  to 
vie  with  its  ancient  rival. 

This  being  so,  how  can  one  excite  in  him- 
self enough  of  interest  to  make  it  the  theme 
of  an  hour's  discourse  ?  Much  as  I  have  de- 
prived it  of,  enough,  perhaps,  will  be  found 
to  be  left.  If  it  is  remarkable  for  its  moral 
deformity,  for  what  man  has  needlessly  made 
of  it,  God's  handiwork  is  nowhere  so  beau- 
titul,  so  manifest,  so  divine  as  there.  It  is 
beautiful  enough  to  have  been  trodden  only 
by  footsteps  of  angels.  In  Rome  and  Flor- 
ence, it  is  its  venerable  relics  of  former  genera- 
tions—  their  ruins,  their  arts,  their  literature, 
that  make  them  famous.  Here  in  Naples  there 
is  no  art,  no  literature,  old  or  new,  no  archi- 


152 


NAPLES. 


tectiirc,  columns  or  temples,  no  ancient  ruins, 
not  a  street,  palace  or  church  that  is  any  way 
remarkable  —  yet  there  is  an  architecture  of 
Heaven  which  surpasses  all  to  be  seen  else- 
where. The  Colosseum  and  St.  Peter's  both 
dwindle  to  insignificance  before  the  dark  mag- 
nificence of  Vesuvius. 

This  then  is  the  first  grand  characteristic  of 
Naples,  its  scenery  ;  Vesuvius,  Herculaneum, 
Pompeii,  the  Bay  and  the  classic  environs  — 
these  are  Naples  —  not  its  houses,  streets,  pala- 
ces, churches  or  ruins. 

There  is  no  scenery  in  the  world  like  Naples 
and  its  environs.  You  are  thrown  into  a  tumult 
of  delightful  sensations  as  you  alight  from  your 
carriage  on  your  arrival  and  look  up  and  around 
you.  You  turn  first  and  instinctively  to  Vesu- 
vius. If  you  were  not  able  on  any  part  of  your 
journey,  as  you  drew  near  the  city,  to  obtain  dis- 
tant glimpses  of  it  —  which  was  the  case  Avith 
myself,  it  was  winter,  excessively  cold  and 
stormy,  with  a  thick  atmosphere  —  your  first 
siL^lit  dl'  it  will  be  obtained  from  the  street  as 
you  enter  your  hotel,  or  from  any  other  the  first 


VESUVIUS.  153 

open  space  you  can  soonest  reach.  My  first 
sight  of  it  was  from  the  upper  end  of  the  street 
Toledo,  where  it  is  carried  over  lower  streets 
upon  a  bridge  of  seven  or  eight  lofty  arches. 
From  that  point  the  prospect  is  uninterrupted. 
Your  eye  passes  directly  to  the  mountain,  over 
the  tops  of  streets,  houses,  churches,  palaces, 
of  the  intervening  villages,  Resina,  Portici  and 
others  to  the  summit  of  the  crater.  No  sight 
can  be  more  surprising,  and  —  after  all  you  had 
heard  about  it — more  unexpected,  than  the 
prospect,  as  you  suddenly  pass  from  the  close 
embankment  of  six  and  eight-story  houses  to 
the  clear  space,  and  the  mountain  suddenly 
bursts  upon  your  eye.  Seen  from  this  point, 
and  in  this  way,  you  are  reminded  of  no  draw- 
ing or  picture  you  had  ever  seen  before.  It  is 
most  commonly  represented  in  prints,  either  as 
making  a  beautiful  feature  in  the  middle  ground, 
or  in  the  full  blaze  of  an  eruption — or  in  the 
extreme  distance,  softened  by  the  mellow  tints 
of  the  southern  air,  as  if  a  splendid  ornament  of 
some  garden.  But  seen  from  so  near  a  point, 
the  eye  leaping  across  at  a  single  bound  —  it  is 


154  NAPLES. 

any  thing  but  a  soft  and  polished  ornament. 
The  clear,  transparent  air  of  the  winter  season, 
together  with  the  fortunate  position — just 
pointed  out  — with  no  obstruction  in  the  way, 
and  the  inky  blackness  of  the  whole  hill  —  its 
only  tint  —  brings  it  so  near  to  you,  that  you 
almost  start  as  it  is  first  revealed.  It  seems 
to  hang  over  and  threaten  the  city.  It  is  eight 
miles  distant,  yet  you  would  think  it  scarce 
three.  Every  roughness,  the  deep  ravines  and 
fissures  with  which  the  face  of  the  mountain 
is  every  where  seamed,  the  rude  piles  of  ex- 
tinct lavas,  the  ragged  angular  masses  of  fallen 
and  shattered  rocks,  are  all  visible  at  that  dis- 
tance, and  the  effect  is,  as  of  some  vast  natural 
ruin  —  a  wide  scene  of  fearful  desolation.  It 
has  about  it  the  same  melancholy  grandeur  as 
the  Colosseum;  only,  as  if  it  were  the  ruin  of 
some  fabric,  upon  a  vaster  scale,  and  of  a  more 
superlative  original  beauty.  The  soft,  green 
turf,  the  richly  variegated  shrubbery,  the  al- 
most tropical  vegetation,  the  gentle  elevations 
and  depressions  of  the  soil,  which  must  once 
have  clothed  the  hill  with  an  unequalled  love- 


VESUVIUS.  155 

liness  —  and  such  is  the  testimony  of  antiquity 
to  its  appearance  before  the  eruption  of  79  — 
of  all  this,  now,  not  a  leaf,  not  a  tint  remains. 
All  is  gone,  through  the  scorching  fires  of  the 
volcano  and  the  ravages  of  earthquakes  that 
have  rent  and  upturned  all  the  surface ;  and  in 
their  place  one  midnight  blackness,  even  at 
mid-day,  and  the  wild  fragments  of  universal 
ruin.  Neither  man,  nor  beast,  nor  insect,  can 
inhabit  there  —  and  the  solitary  bird  could 
not  liglit  in  hope  of  a  single  berry  or  worm. 
The  ascent  of  the  hill,  as  far  as  to  the  foot 
of  the  cone,  is  not  difficult,  and  with  the 
help  of  horses  or  donkeys  occupies  but  little 
time  —  but  from  the  foot  of  the  cone  to  the 
crater,  it  is  quite  another  thing,  and  to  the 
invalid  the  ascent  is  not  only  difficult,  but 
impossible.  But  to  each  and  all  almost  a 
despairing  labor.  The  whole  cone  is  com- 
posed, not  of  ashes,  in  our  sense  of  the  word, 
at  least,  which  mats  more  or  less  beneath  the 
feet  when  trodden  upon,  but  of  a  slippery, 
polished  sand  or  gravel,  on  which  the  foot  can 
get  no  hold,  and  takes  you  inevitably  back- 


156 


NAPLES. 


wards,  the  half  of  each  step  of  advance 
you  may  make  ;  unless,  which  every  few 
steps  will  happen,  you  can  plant  yourself 
securely  upon  a  stone  which  chances  to  be 
firm  set  in  the  soil,  from  which,  as  a  surer 
foundation,  you  can  then  throw  yourself  up- 
ward, and  be  able  to  keep  what  you  get. 
Dante's  advice  in  scaling  some  of  the  heights 
in  hell  holds  good.  "  Let  each  lower  foot  still 
plant  itself  the  firmer."  Half  way  up  the 
cone  I  was  obliged  to  confess  myself  beaten, 
and  with  some  shame,  to  slip  my  easy  way 
down.  The  crater,  which  was  the  object  of 
the  excursion,  and  which  I  failed  to  see,  is 
described  as  a  vast  gulf,  three  miles  in  circum- 
ference, and  from  a  few  hundred  to  two  thou- 
sand feet  in  depth,  up  which,  among  the  cran- 
nies of  the  hardened  lava  of  many  successive 
eruptions,  sulphurous  fumes,  dense  smoke,  or 
steamy  columns,  are  perpetually  ascending, 
and  dispersing  themselves  into  the  atmosphere. 
The  wildest  and  most  dismal  of  all  the 
scenes  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  mountain, 
begins  at  the  foot  of  the  cone  and  spreads  in 


VESUVIUS.  157 

all  directions  many  miles,  encircling  the  whole 
mountain.  This  is  a  comparatively  level  tract ; 
only  in  a  very  moderate  degree  conducting  the 
traveller  downwards.  It  is  totally  composed 
of  the  various  lavas  of  many  eruptions,  in 
rough  and  fantastic  forms  —  scarce  ever  a 
loose  rock ;  but  each  projecting  part  glued  to 
all  the  rest  by  the  once  raging  fires  of  the 
volcano.  On  crossing  a  mile  or  more  of  this 
dreary  region,  on  your  way  to  and  from  the 
Hermitage,  you  walk  wholly  from  rock  to 
rock  of  the  once  boiling  fluid,  but  now  con- 
gealed to  the  hardness  and  sharpness  of  flint, 
and  of  the  color  of  darkness  itself,  so  that  one 
needs  to  have  good  eyes  and  plenty  of  day- 
light to  tread  the  path  safely  ;  and  take  much 
care,  if  he  would  save,  not  only  boots  and  shoes, 
but  feet  also,  from  fearful  laceration ;  and  a 
fall  would  be  as  among  edges  and  points  of 
steel.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  on  leav- 
ing the  cone,  above  and  around,  especially 
toward  Somma,  which,  and  the  valley  that 
lies  between,  seemed  to  reflect  a  double  black- 
ness, nothing  was  to  be  seen  excejit  this 
14 


158  NAPLES. 

seamed  and  broken  surface,  this  uniform  rocki- 
ncss,  this  funereal  gloom,  increased  still  further 
at  that  moment,  by  the  sinking  sun  and  ap- 
proaching night.  But  there  was  a  strange 
fascination  about  it  all  —  it  was  a  scene  to  be 
enjoyed  —  about  as  unaccountable,  perhaps,  as 
the  pleasure  we  take  in  reading  the  sixth  book 
of  the  ^neid,  or  the  Inferno  of  Dante,  or 
Milton's  Pandemonium  —  but  still  a  scene  to 
be  intensely  enjoyed.  I  do  not  remember  once 
having  my  mind  withdrawn  from  it,  down- 
wards, or  abroad,  to  see  the  neighboring  city 
and  bay,  and  the  remoter  scenery  —  you  are 
transfixed  and  ravished  by  the  nearer  pros- 
pects; by  the  absolute  novelty  and  strange- 
ness of  every  object  on  which  the  eye  falls; 
by  the  black  sea  of  ruin  at  your  feet,  and  the 
smoking  crater  above. 

But  there  is  another  view  of  Vesuvius,  as 
well  as  of  the  city,  which  must  not  be  omitted. 
To  enjoy  this  it  is  necessary  to  retreat  from 
the  shore  into  the  Bay  ten  or  fifteen  miles,  till 
you  are  but  a  little  within  the  island  of  Capri, 


VESUVIUS.  159 

then  pause  and  look  back  upon  the  glory  you 
have  left  behind.  This  is,  seen  from  such  a 
point,  that  Bay  of  Naples  which  all  behold 
who  arriv^e  by  sea  ;  of  which  all  sea-captains, 
travellers,  and  sailors  from  all  parts  of  the 
earth,  when  they  go  home,  have  so  much  to 
tell ;  which  stamps  upon  the  minds  of  all  who 
have  ever  once  seen  it,  an  image  of  beauty 
never  afterwards  eclipsed  by  any  other  scene. 
There  can  be  nothing  like  it  elsewhere.  Other 
cities  and  bays  are  beautiful,  comprise  many 
necessary  elements  of  beauty;  Naples  alone 
seems  to  comprise  all  —  all  actual,  all  possible 
elements.  Other  bays,  in  all  parts  of  the 
earth,  by  the  denizens  of  each  place  respec- 
tively, and  by  those  who  have  seen  none  but 
their  own.  are  lauded  as  equal  to,  or,  in  fact,  a 
little  superior  to,  this  scene.  They  are  all 
wonderfully  beautiful,  doubtless;  yet  may  not 
exactly  resemble  this.  There  may  be  many 
beautiful  female  statues  ;  and  yet  fail  in  those 
few  particulars  which  make  the  Venus  de'  Me- 
dici more  beautiful  than  any  other.  Naples 
has  some  prominent  features,  which  nowhere 


160  NAPLK?. 

else  are  to  Lc  seen.     At  least,  there  can  be  but 
one  Vesuvius. 

When  at  the  point  just  indicated,  you  have 
looked  back  upon  what  you  left  behind,  you 
behold  at  a  glance  what  is  meant  by  this 
world  renowned  bay — the  beautiful  sheet  of 
water  embraced  by  the  city,  and  its  extensive 
suburbs,  stretching  along  in  every  form  of 
architecture  towards  Sorento  ou  the  east,  and 
toward  Pausilippo,  Ischia,  and  Procida,  on  the 
south  and  west  —  the  city  itself,  in  the 
centre,  rising  amphitheatre-wise  from  the  tide- 
waters upwards  aud  upwards,  adorned  with 
lofty  buildings,  palaces,  churches  surmounted 
with  steeples,  towers,  or  domes,  till  terminated 
in  the  Castle  of  St.  Elmo,  and  the  royal 
Palace  of  Capo  Monte  a  little  behind  —  all 
this  various  beauty,  when  the  day  is  calm 
and  warm,  doubled  below  in  the  clear  trans- 
parent mirror  of  an  unruffled  sea.  On  the  left 
you  see  Ischia  with  its  craggy  mountainous 
heights,  and  its  sharp  points  and  ridges,  and 
the  small  but  populous  island  of  Procida.  On 
the  north  side  of  the  city  rises  Vesuvius  with 


ENVIRONS BAIiE.  161 

its  other  two  summits,  Somma  and  Ottaiano, 
and  on  their  slopes  toward  the  sea  the  buried 
towns  Herculaneum,  Stabiae,  and  Pompeii,  with 
Resina,  and  Portici,  the  towns  now  standing 
upon  and  over  the  two  first.  Sitting  there  in 
your  boat  you  enjoy  at  your  leisure,  under  the 
shadows  of  Capri,  a  prospect  of  which  I  have 
sketched  the  faint  outlines,  and  which  it  may 
easily  be  believed  is  nowhere  else  to  be  seen. 
Though  in  general  terms  I  have  not  spoken 
very  respectfully  of  the  city,  yet  it  is  not  with- 
out some  redeeming  features  and  agreeable 
associations.  Not  to  mention  again  Hercula- 
neum and  Pompeii,  there  is  on  the  main  land 
and  near  Procida,  Baiae,  the  famous  resort  for 
country-houses  of  the  luxurious  Romans,  es- 
pecially in  the  time  of  the  Empire.  It  was 
the  Nahant  of  Rome.  There  Cicero  had  one 
of  his  many  villas,  Horace  also,  and  several 
of  the  emperors.  Cassar,  likewise,  Julius  Cae- 
sar, and  Pompey  had  their  palaces  at  that 
fashionable  watering-place.  It  was  only  in 
respect  to    its  site    and   its    fashionableness  I 

intended   to    suggest  a    resemblance   between 
14* 


162  NAPLES. 

Nahant  and  Ba\vo.  From  accounts  that  have 
reached  us  of  the  hixury  and  cost  of  sonne  of 
those  Roman  establishments,  the  whole  of  our 
wooden  watering-place,  island  and  all,  pretty- 
as  it  is,  could  hardly  purchase  one  of  them. 
They  were  upon  a  scale  of  costliness  and 
grandeur  which  could  be  accounted  for,  one  is 
apt  to  think,  m  no  honest  way;  it  could  only 
have  been  by  the  wholesale  robberies  of  gen- 
erals, and  proconsuls  of  provinces,  not,  we 
trust,  by  the  extortionate  charges  of  lawyers 
against  their  clients  —  that  villas  like  those 
of  Caesar,  Ilortensius,  PoUio.  Luculhis,  could 
be  built  upon  such  a  scale  —  and  in  such 
numbers  also,  for  they  had  them  not  only  at 
Bairo  but  elsewhere,  wherever  in  Italy  a 
choice  spot  occurred.  Cicero,  Pliny,  Horten- 
sius,  had  many  of  such  country-seats  —  Ti- 
berius, twelve  upon  the  single  island  of 
Capri  —  that  island,  made  so  infamous  by  his 
loathsome  presence.  In  the  same  neighbor- 
hood it  must  not  be  forgotten,  was  the  lake 
Avernus,  which,  with  its  noisome  waters,  its 
volcanic    rocks,    its    dense   and    lofty   woods, 


PAUSILIPPO TOJIB     OF    VIRGIL.  163 

ciramei-ian  shades,  and  pestilential  atmosj)here, 
afforded  to  Homer  and  the  poets  their  scenery 
for  hell.  There  also,  hard  by,  was  the  grotto  of 
the  Cumasan  Sybil.  Nearer  the  city,  in  fact 
now  making  almost  a  part  of,  is  the  lofty 
ridge  of  Pausilippo,  with  its  famous  grotto 
beneath,  or  rather,  in  modern  phrase,  tunnel 
—  a  perforation  through  the  hill,  lofty,  and  in 
length,  nearly  half  a  mile,  arched  with  stone, 
and  built,  doubtless,  with  our  modern  object 
of  affording  a  nearer  passage  to  the  fertile 
plains  behind  the  city,  and  to  the  waters  and 
shores  of  Ischia,  saving,  by  this  contrivance,  a 
long  distance.  Just  above  the  entrance  of  the 
grotto  on  the  same  side  of  the  city,  stands 
what  remains  —  a  ruined,  dismantled  arch  —  of 
the  tomb  of  Virgil,  now  often  a  rendezvous  for 
thieves  and  assassins.  Some  uncertainty  at- 
tends the  site  of  this  tomb,  but  not  so  much  as 
converts  so  many  of  the  remains  of  antiquity 
into  fable.  Cramer  inclines  to  believe  the  site 
to  be  the  true  one.  Eustace,  at^ter  much  in- 
quiry, comes  to  the  same  opinion.  Its  best 
evidence  in    the    present  case,  perhaps,  is  an 


164 


NAPLES. 


ancient  and  pretty  uniform  tradition  in  its 
favor.  Tradition  has  at  least  selected  a  place 
in  itself  highly  ])robable  ;  and  a  fit  resting 
jilace  of  one  whose  soul  was  in  love  with 
every  form  of  beauty — in  full  view  of  the 
unrivalled  bay,  and  of  the  objects  on  its 
shores,  and  of  the  busy  life  upon  its  waters. 
As  the  poet  died  at  Brundusium,  and  expressed 
the  wish  to  be  buried  at  Naples,  because  he 
had  passed  many  of  his  happiest  years  there, 
and  there  had  written  the  Georgics,  it  would 
be  strange  if  his  wishes  had  not  been  complied 
with.  There  could,  therefore,  only  be  diffi- 
culty or  doubt  about  the  precise  spot  where 
the  body  was  laid  ;  and  one  may  readily  leave 
that  matter  to  be  settled  by  this  ancient  and 
very  uniform  tradition. 

Of  the  promontory  of  Sorentnm,  forming 
the  eastern  arm  of  the  bay,  there  is  only  to  be 
said,  that  on  the  other  side,  on  the  gnlph  of 
Salerno,  lie  the  Islands  of  the  Sirens,  as  some 
maintain  —  by  others  they  are  placed  near 
Mount  iEtna ;  and  that  the  most  distinguished 
iiilial)itaiit  of  the    city    of   Sarentnm -^  then. 


NAPLES  FROM  CAPRI.  165 

what  Naples  is  now  —  was  the  famous  or  infa- 
mous Vedius  Pollio,  he  who  in  his  fish-ponds 
fatted  lampreys  upon  the  bodies  of  slaves, 
thrown  in  tiiere  by  way  of  punishment  or 
amusement.  He  seems  to  have  possessed 
another  villa  at  Baias.  The  world  may  safely 
be  challenged  to  present  a  more  attractive 
scene  than  is  offered  by  these  various  objects, 
with  their  associations.  And  it  must  be  re- 
membered, that  although  other  scenes  may 
perhaps  be  not  inferior  to  this,  on  some  remote 
American  or  Asian  shore,  on  some  Pacific  or 
Indian  sea,  yet  here  you  have  what  here 
only  can  be  had  in  equal  perfection,  the  soft 
purplish  haze  of  the  Italian  atmosphere,  which 
doubles  the  charm  of  every  thing  seen  through 
it ;  and  that  here,  also,  the  charm  of  antiquity 
throws  another  halo  around  it  all,  a  charm, 
more  than  that  even  of  the  atmosphere,  and 
which  no  Indian  or  other  southern  shores  can 
supply  with  all  their  tropical  vegetation. 

But  it  is  not  only  as  seen  from  the  bay 
mider  the  shadows  of  Capri,  that  Naples  and 
its  environs  are  beautiful.     The  city  and  the 


lOG  NAPLES. 

mountain  together,  seen  from  whatever  point, 
separately  or  in  conjunction,  enter  into  a 
thousand  landscapes,  of  which  they  make  the 
central  point  of  attraction.  This  must  be 
the  very  heaven  of  the  artist.  Here,  he  can 
never  be  compelled  to  search  long  for  forms, 
either  of  mountain,  foliage,  water  or  land, 
ruin,  or  architecture  of  any  kind,  out  of  which 
to  compose  his  picture.  He  has  but  to  open 
his  eyes  and  look,  and  without  the  pains  of 
selection,  invention,  or  embellishment,  the 
picture  is  before  him.  If  he  passes  through  a 
half-ruined  village,  which  almost  all  villages 
are,  by  an  old  bridge  with  its  little  brook 
beneath,  a  mill,  a  fallen  arch,  a  section  of  an 
aqueduct,  a  group  of  farm  buildings  with  their 
grotesque  chimneys,  each  one  of  them  graced 
by  some  low  shrubbery,  by  oliv^e  trees,  the 
cypress,  the  poplar,  or  the  towering  Italian 
pme ;  and,  having  found  his  front  ground,  he 
wishes  for  a  middle  or  remoter  distance,  which 
shall  not  only  be  that,  but  a  new  grace  added 
to  the  whole,  he  has  always  before  him  the 
intervening    plain,   rich    with   a    multitude   of 


SCENERY    OF    THE    ENVIRONS.  167 

beautiful  forms,  and,  in  the  horizon,  the  well- 
shaped  Vesuvius,  with  its  sluggish  vapors,  or 
its  dense  curling  smoke  issuing  from  the  top 
and  spreading  around.  If  he  should  be  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Sarento,  he  has  the  bay  be- 
tween him  and  the  city  and  mountain,  or  some 
little  cape  or  promontory,  with  its  small  im- 
prisoned lake,  more  beautiful  than  the  larger 
gulf.  The  walks  any  where  about  Naples, 
either  on  the  high  grounds  or  along  the  valleys 
and  the  streams,  on  the  sea-shore  or  among 
the  rocks,  can  never  be  other  than  burdened 
with  beauty,  as  the  overhanging  orange  and 
lemon  groves  with  their  golden  fruit.  Here, 
and  so  every  where  throughout  Italy,  you  have 
that  happy  intermingling  of  art  and  nature  so 
essential  to  form  an  attractive  landscape.  In 
02ir  country  we  have  natural  scenery  beautiful 
enough,  and  enough  of  it,  but  it  becomes 
monotonous  for  the  want  of  forms  of  art.  We 
have  forms  of  art  also,  to  be  sure,  and  enough 
of  them,  but  what  can  the  artist  do  with 
clapboards  and  shingles,  or  bright  new  bricks  ? 
And  not  only  the  artist,  the  poet,  though  he 


16S  NAPLES. 

should  not  wish  to  describe  any  one  of  the 
objects  before  him,  could  not  but  catch  a 
new  inspiration  from  the  boundless  wealth  of 
beauty  spread  every  where  around — of  itself 
enough  to  create  a  poet,  though  born  to  prose. 
Who  can  tell  how  much  the  soul  of  Tasso 
may  not  have  owed  its  gentle  enthusiasm  for 
all  that  is  beautiful  to  the  scenes  that  first  met 
his  infant  eye,  as  it  looked  forth  from  his  birth- 
place under  the  heights  of  Sorento,  and  fell 
upon  that  bay  and  mountain  in  all  their  glory. 
And  Virgil,  during  his  long  residence  there, 
must  have  had  breathed  into  him  some  new 
life  from  objects  which  he  could  not  but  have 
felt  so  mucli  to  surpass  in  charms  of  every  kind 
his  native  Mantua,  the  Roman  campagna,  and 
even  the  loved  heights  of  Tibur  and  Tusculum. 

I  have  tried  to  set  before  you  at  least  a  dim 
conception  of  the  outward  beauty  of  Naples 
and  its  environs.  The  other  princi[)al  objects  to 
the  traveller  arc  the  old  Roman  cities  which  the 
volcano  buried  beneath  lava  and  ashes  —  and 
which  later  times,  like  the  modern  resurrection- 


ERUPTION    OF    79.  169 

ists.  have  iinburied,  and  exposed,  in  their  bones 
and  other  remains,  to  the  gaze  of  the  world. 

Yesnvins  as  it  now  appears,  I  have  attempted 
to  describe,  with  its  environment  for  many- 
miles  of  old  extinct  lavas  of  pitchy  black- 
ness, and  rongh  as  if  the  tumultuous  waves 
of  a  black  sea  had  snddenly  been  converted  to 
stone.  I  have  described  it  also  as  seen  at  a  dis- 
tance, in  its  graceful,  sloping  form,  and  painted 
by  the  gorgeous  dies  of  the  atmosphere. 

But  it  must  be  —  not  described  —  but  by 
your  own  imaginations  represented  in  one 
other  aspect,  as  it  appeared,  after  a  long  repose 
of  centuries,  when,  in  the  year  79  of  our 
era,  in  the  reign  of  Titus,  it  suddenly  was 
converted  to  a  mountain  of  fire  ;  burying  the 
surrounding  territories,  in  first  the  thickest 
darkness  for  several  days,  then  from  beneath 
the  canopy  of  cloud,  pouring  out  from  its 
sides  rivers  of  lava  and  other  melted  sub- 
stances, which  with  more  than  the  light  of 
the  sun  illuminated  the  earth  and  the  over- 
hanging clouds,  and  making  their  way  down 
the   mountain  overwhelmed  the  city  of  Her- 

15 


170  NAPLES. 

culaneum,  burying  it  to  a  depth  of  from  sixty 
to  a  hundred  feet  below  the  moUen  mass  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  destroying  Pompeii  and 
StabisB  by  successive  showers  of  stifling  ashes. 
The  younger  Pliny,  living  at  that  time, 
describes  the  terrific  scene  in  a  letter  to  the 
historian  Tacitus.  His  uncle,  Pliny  the  nat- 
uralist, stationed  at  Misenum,  twenty  miles 
from  the  mountain,  as  commander  of  the 
Roman  fleet  at  that  place,  drawn  first  by  a 
scientific  curiosity  to  witness  nearer  the  dread- 
ful scene,  then  by  a  sentiment  of  compassion 
for  the  multitudes  whom  he  saw  perishing  in 
the  most  miserable  manner,  and  venturing  too 
near  the  scene  of  danger  was  himself  over- 
taken by  blasts  of  the  suftbcating  smokes  and 
gases  that  raged  every  where  around  tiic  hill, 
and  perished  among  those  whom  he  went  to 
save.  Pliny  addresses  two  letters  to  Tacitus; 
in  the  first  confining  himself  chiefly  to  the 
circumstances  attending  the  death  of  his  uncle, 
in  the  second  relating  his  own  experiences  and 
observations  during  the  eruption  of  the  moun- 
tain.    From  this  I  read  an  extract.      "  There 


PLINy's    letter    to    TACITUS,  171 

had  been,"  he  says,  "  many  days  before, 
shocks  of  an  earthquake,  which  the  less  sur- 
prised us  as  they  are  extremely  frequent  in 
Campania ;  but  they  were  so  particularly 
violent  this  night,  that  they  not  only  shook 
every  thing  about  us,  but  seemed  indeed  to 
threaten  universal  destruction.  My  mother 
flew  to  my  chamber,  where  she  found  me 
rising,  in  order  to  awaken  me.  We  went  out 
into  a  small  court  belonging  to  the  house, 
which  separated  the  sea  from  the  buildings." 
"  Though  it  was  now  morning,  the  light  was 
extremely  faint  and  languid  ;  the  buildings  all 
around  tottered,  and  though  we  stood  upon 
open  ground,  yet  as  the  place  was  narrow  and 
confined,  there  was  no  remaining  there  with- 
out certain  and  great  danger  ;  we  therefore 
resolved  to  quit  the  town.  The  people  fol- 
lowed us  in  the  utmost  consternation,  and 
pressed  in  great  crowds  about  in  our  way. 
Being  got  to  a  convenient  distance  from  the 
houses,  we  stood  still  in  the  midst  of  a  most  dan- 
gerous and  dreadful  scene.  The  chariots  which 
we  had  ordered  to  be  drawn  out,  were  agitated 


172  NAPLES. 

backwards  and  forwards,  though  upon  tlie  most 
level  ground,  that  we  could  not  keep  them 
steady  even  by  supporting  them  by  large 
stones.  The  sea  seemed  to  roll  back  upon 
itself,  and  to  be  driven  from  its  banks  by  the 
convulsive  motions  of  the  earth.  It  is  certain, 
at  least,  that  the  shore  was  considerably  en- 
larged, and  several  sea  animals  were  left  upon 
it.  On  the  other  side,  a  black  and  dreadful 
cloud,  bursting  with  an  igneous  serpentine 
vapor,  darted  out  a  long  train  of  fire  resem- 
bling flashes  of  lightning.  Soon  afterward 
the  cloud  seemed  to  descend  and  cover  the 
whole  ocean,  as  indeed  it  entirely  hid  the 
island  of  Caprias  and  the  promontory  of  Mise- 
num."  '■'■  The  ashes  now  began  to  fall  upon 
us,  though  in  no  great  quantity.  I  turned  my 
head,  and  observed  behind  us  a  thick  smoke 
which  came  rolling  after  us  like  a  torrent.  I 
proposed,  while  we  had  yet  any  light,  to  turn 
out  of  the  high  road,  lest  we  should  be  pressed 
to  death  in  the  dark  by  the  crowd  that  fol- 
lowed. We  had  scarce  stepped  out  of  the 
path,  when   darkness   overspread   us,  not   like 


PLINy's    letter    to    TACITUS.  173 

that  of  a  cloudy  night,  or,  when  there  is  no 
moon,  but  of  a  room  when  it  is  shut  up,  and 
all  lights  are  extinct.  Nothing  then  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  shrieks  of  women,  the  screams 
of  children,  and  the  cries  of  men  —  some  call- 
ing for  their  children,  others  for  their  parents, 
otiiers  for  their  husbands,  and  distinguishing 
each  otlier  by  their  voices  ;  one  lamenting  his 
own  fate,  another  that  of  his  family,  some 
wishing  to  die,  some  lifting  their  hands  to  the 
gods  ;  but  the  greater  part  imagining  that  the 
last  and  eternal  night  was  come,  which  was  to 
destroy  both  the  world  and  the  gods  together." 
"At  length  a  glimmering  light  appeared,  which 
we  imagined  to  be  rather  the  forerunner  of  an 
approaching  burst  of  flames,  (as  in  truth  it  was) 
than  the  return  of  day  :  however,  the  fire  fell 
at  a  distance  from  us.  Then  again  we  were 
immersed  in  thick  darkness,  and  a  heavy 
shower  of  ashes  rained  upon  ns,  which  we 
were  obliged  every  now  and  then  to  shake  off, 
otherwise  we  should  have  been  crushed  and 
buried  in  the  heap.     I  might  boast  that  during 

all  this  scene  of  horror,  not  a  sigh  or  expres- 
15* 


174  NAPLES. 

sion  of  fear  escaped  me,  had  not  my  sujiport 
been  founded  on  that  miserable  though  stronor 
consolation,  that  all  mankind  were  involved  in 
the  same  calamity,  and  that  I  imagined  that  I 
was  perishing  with  the  world  itself.  At  last 
this  dreadful  darkness  was  dissipated  (after  a 
duration  of  three  days,)  by  degrees,  like  a 
cloud  or  smoke  ;  the  real  day  returned,  and 
even  the  sun  appeared,  though  very  faintly, 
and  as  when  an  eclipse  is  coming  on.  Every 
object  that  presented  itself  to  our  eyes  seemed 
changed,  being  covered  over  with  wliite  ashes, 
as  with  a  deep  snow.  We  returned  to  IMise- 
num,  where  we  refreshed  ourselves  as  well  as 
we  could,  and  passed  an  anxious  night  be- 
tween hope  and  fear,  for  the  earthquake  still 
continued.  However,  my  mother  and  I,  not- 
withstanding the  danger  we  had  passed  and 
that  still  threatened  us,  had  no  thought  of 
leaving  the  place  till  we  should  receive  some 
account  of  my  uncle." 

He  had  already  perished  on  the  beach  at  Sta- 
bia?,  ten  miles  from  Vesuvius,  the  second  day  of 
the  eruption  —  this  was  now  the  fourth.  There 
appear  to  liavc  been  three  days  of  total  darkness, 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  ERUPTION  OF  79.   175 

except  occasionally  relieved  by  the  breaking  out 
of  flames  or  lava.  It  may  be  imagined  what  the 
scene  must  have  been  which  presented  itself 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Herculaneum  and  Pom- 
peii, or  at  Naples,  when  that  which  Pliny 
describes  occurred  at  Misenum,  twenty  miles, 
nearly,  from  the  mountain,  with  Naples  itself, 
and  the  high  lands  intervening  between  it  and 
the  volcano  ;  and  what  multitudes  must  have 
perished,  if  at  ten  miles  distance,  Pliny  was 
suffocated  by  the  poisonous  gases  that  pre- 
vailed. I  believe  no  account  has  come  to  us 
how  great  the  destruction  of  life  was  on  this 
occasion,  nor  even  of  what  befel  the  Neapoli- 
tans. The  only  fact  in  this  relation  is  the 
immediate  relief  which  the  Emperor  Titus, 
with  characteristic  humanity,  dispatched  to 
the  scene,  as  soon  as  the  nevv^s  of  the  disaster 
had  reached  Rome.  We  may  readily  conjec- 
ture, that  all  the  inhabitants  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  the  hill  must  have  had  sufH- 
cient  warning  by  the  earthquake,  and  the  first 
bursting  out  of  smoke  from  the  crater,  to  ena- 
ble them  to  escape.     And   that   the  most   did 


176  NAPLES. 

escape,  at  least  from  Pompeii,  is  proved  by  the 
comparatively  few  skeletons  that  have  been 
discovered  there.  By  some  it  has  been  af- 
firmed that  at  Herculaneum  the  approach  of 
danger  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected,  that 
the  theatres  were  crowded  at  the  time  when 
the  torrents  of  boiling  mud  and  ashes  over- 
whelmed and  buried  it,  and  the  entire  popula- 
tion, at  the  same  time.  But  tliis  seems  incon- 
sistent with  the  account  of  Pliny,  who  states 
that  the  first  signal  of  danger  was  the  lofty 
column  of  smoke,  cinders,  and  stones,  which 
ascended  many  thousand  feet,  and  at  the 
top  "  branched  out  in  the  shape  of  a  pine 
tree."  Unless,  indeed,  that  may  be  conjectured 
to  have  happened,  which  was  possible  and 
not  unlikely,  and  the  side  of  tiie  mountain 
toward  Herculaneum  suddenly  opened,  at  the 
same  time  with  the  ascent  of  the  column  of 
smoke,  and  poured  down  those  floods  of  liquid 
matter  which  laid  waste  and  buried  all  between 
the  hill  and  the  ocean  shore.  And  had  that 
been  the  kind  of  torrent  which  overwliclmed 
the  city,  no  human  remains  could  have  resisted 


EFFECTS    OF    THE    ERUPTION.  177 

the  heat  —  they  would  have  been  converted 
to  ashes. 

It  is  commonly  supposed  that  it  was  by  a 
single  eruption  —  the  one  just  described  by 
Pliny  —  that  Herculaneum  was  overwhelmed. 
But  examinations  of  careful  naturalists  have 
determined  that  there  are  distinct  evidences  of 
six  which  succeeded  the  one  in  the  reign  of 
Titus  —  each  contributing  a  new  layer  of  mud 
or  lava,  to  that  which  first  destroyed  the  city. 
"  The  matter  v/ith  which  it  is  covered  is  not 
every  where  the  same.  In  some  places  it  is  a 
sort  of  burnt  earth,  like  ashes  ;  in  others,  a 
sort  of  lime  and  hard  cement  ;  and  elsewhere 
it  is  covered  with  vitrified  matter,  which  the 
Neapolitans  call  lava,  composed  of  sulphur, 
stones,  and  metallic  substances,  which  Vesu- 
vius throws  out  at  its  eruptions.  This  lava, 
whilst  it  preserved  its  fluidity,  ran  like  a  river 
to  the  sea,  but  as  soon  as  it  cooled,  it  subsided 
and  became  a  solid  substance,  like  a  dark  bluo 
marble,  and  of  which  I  have  seen  tables,  snufl"- 
boxes,   and  many   trinkets  made."* 

*  Lamisdem,  p.  270. 


178  NAPLKS, 

It  was  not  till  the  last  of  these  eruptions  had 
made  its  doj)osits,  and  by  long  lapse  of  time,  that 
a  new  soil  came  to  be  well  comi)ounded  and  set- 
tled so  as  to  afford  a  site  for  habitation,  that  the 
modern  town  of  Portici  arose  directly  over  the 
roofs  of  the  ancient  Herculaneum.  It  must 
be  understood,  also,  that  in  the  eruption  of  79, 
whatever  may  have  been  the  amomit  and 
extent  of  the  lava  which  flowed,  it  was  not 
that  by  which  either  of  those  cities,  Hercu- 
laneum, Pompeii,  or  Stabios  was  destroyed. 
Had  Herculaneum,  or  any  other  city,  been  in- 
gulphed  beneath  lava,  flowing  from  the  crater, 
nothing  could  have  resisted  the  fierce  heat  — 
and  even  stones  and  bricks,  if  they  had  not 
been  melted  by  it,  and  converted  in  a  manner 
to  its  own  substance,  would  at  least  have  been 
so  far  fused  as  to  have  made  of  the  whole 
town  one  solid  mass  of  molten  or  half  molten 
matter,  from  which  no  relic  of  antiquity  could 
ever  afterward  have  been  extricated.  But, 
happily,  for  us,  the  flood  which  overwhelmed 
Herculaneum,  was  one  not  of  lava,  but  of  a 
sort    of   boiling    mud  —  a    mixture    of   ashes. 


EFFECTS    OF    THE     ERUPTION.  179 

water,  pumice,  and  various  other  burnt  sub- 
stances, which  burst  from  the  mountain  and 
buried,  without  destroying  it.  That  it  must 
have  been  in  a  red-hot  state,  is  sufficiently 
proved  by  all  wooden  matter,  and  all  objects 
of  a  combustible  nature  being  converted  to 
charcoal.  And  that  it  must  have  been  quite 
liquid  —  more  so  than  lava  —  is  shown  by  the 
circumstance  that  it  rose  and  filled  all  parts  of 
all  dwellings,  packing  the  whole  city  solid 
with  its  own  matter  —  becoming  when  cooled 
a  soft,  spongy,  porous  stone,  which  the  Italians 
call  tufa,  very  distinct  from  lava,  which  has 
the  hardness  of  granite  or  flint.  But  while 
all  objects,  in  any  way  combustible,  were,  not 
absolutely  destroyed,  but  turned  to  charcoal, 
retaining  each  its  specific  form,  as  in  the  case 
of  parchment  rolls,  loaves  of  bread,  fruits,  and 
grains  of  various  kinds,  —  objects  of  a  more 
enduring  character,  all  objects  made  of  metal, 
of  marble,  statues,  culinary  apparatus,  sur- 
geon's instruments,  &c.,  these  all  resisted  the 
fury  of  the  heat,  and  with  scarce  any  injury 
are  now  to  be  seen  in  the  museums  of  Portici 


180  NAPLES. 

and  Naples,  to  throw  abundant  light  upon  the 
domestic  nsages  and  arts  of  the  ancients,  and 
—  if  tiie  mannscript  rolls  could  be  more  easily 
umolled  and  deciphered  —  upon  the  literature 
of  the    Romans. 

There  is  but  little  gratification  in  visiting 
Herculaneum.  As  Portici  stands  directly  over 
it,  the  excavations  cannot  be  carried  on  so 
freely  as  might  otherwise  have  been  the  case. 
Always  it  has  been  necessary  to  leave  immense 
piers  of  tufa  and  huildiuirs  to  support  the  su- 
perincumbent town,  wliicii  has  seriously  inter- 
rupted the  labor,  and  at  length  all  further 
operations,  for  the  same  reason,  have  been 
suspended.  To  descend  into  the  old  city,  is 
to  descend  into-  a  vast  well  —  into  a  darkness 
so  profound  that  ordinary  means  of  illumination 
utterly  tail  to  produce  any  effect.  The  guide, 
with  a  wax  torch  at  the  top  of  a  long  pole, 
when  he  has  reached  a  point  where  any  thing 
interesting  is  to  be  seen,  as  in  the  Theatre, 
which  has  been  partly  excavated,  moves  it 
slowly  over  the  object,  and  yon  can  just  dis- 
cern some  of  the  paintings  on  the  walls,  some 


HERCULANEAN.  181 

of  the  stuccoes  and  mosaics.  Bat  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  entirely  satisfactory,  as 
in  the  Baths  of  Livia  in  the  Palace  of  the 
CEesars,  hut  the  darkness  itself. 

Not  far  from  the  descent  into  the  subterra- 
nean excavation,  quite  a  number  of  buildings 
are  shown  entirely  open  to  the  light  and  air, 
wholly  cleansed  from  whatever  matter  it  was 
by  whicli  they  were  once  overwhelmed  — 
probably  the  same  liglit  ashes  by  which  Pom- 
peii was  buried.  These  were  in  very  perfect 
preservation.  The  plastering  upon  tbe  walls 
had  not  fallen  from  many  of  the  houses ;  it 
still  retained  its  brilliant  red  polish  —  which 
seems  to  have  been  the  fashionable  color  at 
that  time  —  with  their  rich  arabesque  border- 
ings,  and  their  central  figures  upon  the  panels 
—  some  god  or  goddess,  or  else  bird  or  animal. 
Stone  stairs  still  conducted  to  the  upper  stories, 
in  one  instance  to  the  third.  The  buildings 
here  I  found  in  a  state  of  more  complete  pre- 
servation than  any  I  afterwards  saw  in  Pom- 
peii. 

To   Pompeii  I    made  a  solitary  visit  on  a 
IG 


182  NAPLES. 

Sunday  —  a  better  way,  perhaps,  of  passing 
Sunday  tliaii  any  other,  in  Italy.  By  being 
on  tlie  road  or  among  the  melancholy  ruins  of 
the  destroyed  city,  I  at  least  secured  silence 
and  repose  which  are  impossible  in  Naples, 
where,  to  an  American,  there  must  always  seem 
on  that  day  especially  the  uproar  of  a  carnival. 
The  silence  at  Pompeii  was  absolute  ;  only  once 
or  twice  did  I  see  a  human  being  in  all  those 
lonely  streets  —  a  lady,  with  two  little  boys, 
and  three  or  four  English  sailors,  those  were 
all  —  otherwise  every  thing  solitary  and  still. 
The  weather  being  later  than  autumnal,  there 
was  not  to  be  heard  so  much  as  the  chirping 
of  a  cricket  or  insect's  hum.  It  all  looked  as 
one  would  suppose;  and  the  only  thing  I  was 
surprised  by  was  the  number  and  extent  of  the 
houses  and  the  streets.  I  was  three  or  four 
hours  walking  about  and  among  those  deserted 
ways,  yet  I  could  have  entered  but  a  small  pro- 
portion of  the  dwellings  or  streets  on  either 
side ;  and  those  I  did  enter,  I  was  compelled  to 
examine  more  hastily  than  was  either  agreeable 
or  profitable.     The  great  subject  of  regret  in 


POMPEII.  183 

visiting  these  relics  of  a  former  world,  is,  that 
the  objects  of  more  especial  interest,  in  house- 
hold furniture,  kitchen  apparatus,  and  art,  have 
been  all  removed  from  the  spots  where  they 
were  found,  except  in  a  single  instance,  and 
now  are  to  be  seen  only  in  Museums.  It 
adds  extremely  to  the  instruction  and  pleasure 
of  visiting  an  ancient  sepulchre  or  disinterred 
dwelling,  to  know  that  all  remains  just  where 
it  was  found  ;  and  just  where  it  had  been 
placed  by  the  old  Roman  dweller  in  the  house, 
by  the  owner  or  builder  of  the  tomb.  That 
was  the  case  in  descending  into  an  old  Etruscan 
tomb  near  Perugia  —  the  funeral  ornaments  of 
marble  had  never  been  disturbed — they  stood 
where  the  hands  of  affection  had  first  placed 
them,  perhaps  three  thousand  years  ago.  The 
bronze  lamp,  a  mere  time-eaten  fragment  of  a 
lamp,  still  hung  where  it  had  been  placed  at 
the  last  interment.  That  also  was  the  case  in 
parts  of  the  Catacombs,  and  in  the  Columbaria 
in  Rome.  Perhaps  in  the  case  of  Pompeii,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  preserve  the 
objects  found  there,  without  a  wall  being  built 


181 


NAPLES. 


around  tlie  whole  city,  with  guards  iu  addition 
to  protect  them  iVoni  thefts,  and  without  roofs 
being  constructed  to  sheUer  them  from  the 
Aveather.  Still,  had  it  been  considered  an 
object,  many  very  interesting  remains  might 
have  been  as  safe  in  the  dwellings  of  Pompeii 
as  in  the  halls  of  Museums  ;  and  with  what 
an  addition  to  the  instruction  and  gratification 
of  every  visitor.  One  house,  however  —  the 
last  one  excavated  —  had  been  left  with  all  its 
marbles,  mosaic  pavements  and  pictures,  just 
as  they  were  found.  Bronzes  alone  had  been 
removed,  on  account  of  injury  from  the  atmos- 
phere. This  house  was  laid  open  about  three 
years  ago.  It  is  completely  floored  with  mo- 
saic pavements  of  pretty  patterns,  and  all  the 
walls  adorned  with  pictures,  arabesques,  &c., 
such  as  may  be  seen  in  Cell's  Pompeii.  One 
room  had  evidently  been  built  and  prepared  in 
order  to  please  some  little  child  —  a  sort  of 
great  baby-house.  At  the  upper  part  of  it  is 
a  diminutive  fountain,  ornamented  with  mo- 
saics and  shell-work.  Then  just  beneath  the 
aperture   for   the  water,  there  are  four  or  five 


POMPEII.  185 

diminutive  steps  of  marble,  the  water  being 
designed  to  make  a  succession  of  falls,  down 
from  step  to  step,  whence  it  was  to  collect  into 
a  large  basin  in  the  centre.  Then  all  around 
this  central  basin,  are  various  animals,  ducks, 
dogs,  rabbits,  &c.,  all  of  marble  also,  and,  be- 
sides, several  small  statues,  all  as  if  intended  to 
afford  pleasure  to  little  children.  What  would 
this  room  have  been  had  all  these  and  like 
objects  been  removed  ?  These  seemed  to  re- 
main wholly  undisturbed.  Had  every  thing 
been  permitted  to  remain,  one  cannot  but  think 
their  own  sanctity  would  have  protected  them. 
Who  could  steal  in  Pompeii?  The  English 
sailors,  even,  were  as  solemn  as  the  scene. 
Here  were  to  be  seen  the  lead  pipes  for  con- 
ducting aqueduct  water  about  the  houses,  with 
their  brass  cocks  still  in  place  —  the  stairs 
leading  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  kitchen 
fire-place ;  the  vaults  for  oil  and  wine  :  and 
the  earthen  vessels  as  they  had  been  found 
and  left,  filled  full  of  the  ashes  which  so  mys- 
teriously penetrated    to    every  part    of  every 

house,  and  by  cracks  and  crannies  into  every 
16* 


1S6  NAPLES. 

closet,  room,  cellar,  vase  and  jar,  and  packed 
all  solid  with  itself.  The  way,  however,  in 
Avhich  that  happened,  must  have  been  either 
by  the  ashes  having  been  accompanied  by 
\vater,  as  it  first  fell,  or  afterwards  forced  in 
by  the  pressure  of  successive  rains. 

The  streets  of  Pompeii  were,  as  you  may 
remember,  all  narrow  —  not  more  than  fifteen 
feet  wide,  and  few  less  than  that — the  widest 
thirty ;  with  raised  sidewalks  about  two  or 
three  feet  wide,  raised  as  much  as  a  foot,  or  a 
foot  and  a  half,  above  the  central  carriage-way 
—  higher  than  with  us.  In  these  usages,  the 
descendants  of  the  Pompeians  in  the  modern 
Italian  cities  have  failed  unwisely  to  imitate 
them — which  are  all  without  sidewalks.  The 
pavements  are  of  the  same  large,  every-way- 
shaped  flat  stones,  which  are  found  in  the  an- 
cient streets  of  Rome.  The  shops  are  small, 
which  is  still  characteristic  of  Italian  towns 
and  cities.  IMany  of  the  dwelling-houses  of 
the  better  sort  are  very  extensive,  as  those 
called  houses  of  Diomed,  Sallust,  Pansa,  &c. 
That   of  Diomed   is  of  three  stories,  or  flats; 


POxMPEII.  187 

the  lowest,  consisting  of  subterranean  arclies, 
fifty  feet,  perhaps,  each  way,  and,  overhead,  a 
square  or  court,  which  served  as  a  garden, 
with  a  large  basin  for  water  in  the  middle,  and, 
around,  chambers  and  rooms  for  common  use, 
then  the  usual  vestibule,  the  atrium,  implu- 
vium,  triclinium  in  the  universal  way  in  Pom- 
peii. It  was  interesting  to  see  the  baker's 
establishment,  the  stone  mill  for  grinding  his 
grain,  and  the  oven,  which  might  be  used  to- 
day as  well  as  ever.  So  tlie  shop  for  selling 
wine,  with  its  five  or  six  earthen  amphoras  set 
in  the  brick  counter,  with  a  marble  facing,  on 
wiiich  are  visible  still  the  circular  marks  of 
drinking  vessels.  In  the  corner  of  one  of  the 
rooms  is  shown  the  remnant  of  a  broken 
square  of  glass  still  sticking  in  its  place.  Glass 
windows  to  dwelling-houses  seem  not  to 
have  been  common.  The  rooms  and  cham- 
bers were  lighted  from  the  inner  court  of  the 
house,  either  by  their  doors,  or  by  openings 
defended  by  wooden  shutters  —  that  is  the 
common  statement  ;  tliough  it  is  not  easy  to 
see   why,  in  all   such   cases,  there  should  nor 


ISS  NAPLES. 

have  been  glass  ;  and  also  in  the  fronts  of  the 
shops,  where  there  is  always  a  wide  opening 
in  the  wall,  just  where  a  window  of  glass 
ought  to  be,  and  would  be  so  convenient.  So 
with  the  houses  of  the  first  class,  it  is  not  easy 
to  see  how  they  could  have  been  inhabited 
with  comfort,  or  in  any  elegance,  without 
an  extensive  use  of  this  substance.  And  the 
occurrence  of  it  in  a  single  instance,  in  a  small 
obscure  corner  of  a  small  and  obscure  tene- 
ment, would  scern  to  prove  with  sufficient 
strength  that  it  was  a  material  as  common  as 
with  us,  and  would  be  used  in  the  same  way, 
and  for  all  like  purposes.  The  fragment  which 
I  saw  was  thick  and  smooth,  and  looked  more 
like  our  heaviest  plate  glass  than  our  common 
kinds.  Its  transparency  had  been  obscured  by 
time,  or  by  having  been  ground,  or,  like  so 
much  modern  plate  glass,  from  having  been 
badly  compounded.  But  beside  this,  I  find  on 
inquiry  that  in  one  of  the  baths  a  window 
was  discovered,  nearly  three  feet  square,  of  a 
single  pane,  the  glass  two-fifths  of  an  inch 
tliick,  and  ground  on  one  side,  to  prevent  per- 


POMPEII. 


180 


sons  on  a  neighboring  roof  from  looking  in. 
Another  wmdow  of  large  size  was  found,  the 
single  pane  set  in  a  bronze  frame  secured  by 
screws  of  the  same  metal,  so  that  it  might  be 
removed  at  pleasure  —  or  it  might  have  been 
only  the  usual  way  of  setting. 

In  regard  to  the  common  use  of  glass  for 
windows,  however,  it  is  to  be  remembered, 
that  in  the  climate  of  Naples  it  could  be  con- 
sidered hardly  at  any  time  as  necessary  for  the 
exclusion  of  cold  ;  and  accordingly,  if  it  were 
a  substance  more  costly  than  with  us,  or  if  the 
manufacture  of  only  the  heavier  and  more  ex- 
pensive kinds  was  understood,  it  would  have 
been  employed  with  comparative  infrequency, 
which  may  explain  why  more  was  not  found. 
Shutters  of  wood  for  warmth,  or  fixed  windows 
of  linen  cloth  would  have  been  used  instead. 
Glass,  except  for  a  couple  of  months  in  the 
year,  is  hardly  needed  more  in  Naples  than  in 
our  West  India  Islands. 

In  a  word,  there  is  scarce  any  thing  in  com- 
mon use,  in  the  way  of  a  common  convenience 
now,  and  here,  which  was  not  in  use  among 


100  NAPLES. 

the  Romans  of  Pompeii  in  the  79th  year  of 
our  era.  Doors  were  found  to  have  been  made 
of  wood,  as  with  us;  the  wood  more  com- 
monly used,  the  fir ;  they  were  hung  not  upon 
our  butt  hinges  —  though  I  do  uot  know  that 
even  they  have  not  been  found  among  other 
things  —  but  more  usually,  at  any  rate,  they 
revolved  upon  pivots,  like  our  barn  doors :  they 
were  fastened  with  bolts  hung  by  chains,  and 
at  night  closed  with  shutters.  Bedsteads  were 
found,  sometimes  of  wood,  at  other  times  of 
iron ;  implements  of  a  thousand  kinds,  of  brass, 
iron,  stone  and  earthen  ware,  for  both  common 
and  religious  uses,  trumpets,  bells,  gridirons, 
colanders,  sauce-pans  of  bronze,  some  lined 
with  silver,  kettles,  ladles,  moulds  for  jelly  and 
pastry ;  urns,  for  keeping  water  hot,  on  the 
principle  of  the  modern  tea  urn  ;  lanterns,  with 
horn  lights ;  spits,  and  every  various  article  for 
kitchen  use,  with  almost  the  single  and  singu- 
lar exceptions  of  forks  —  chains,  bolts,  locks, 
and  scourges  ;  portable  fire-places,  with  a  con- 
trivance for  keeping  water  hot,  dice,  some 
found  loaded,  a  complete  toilet,    with  combs, 


POMPEII. 


191 


thimbles,  rings,  &c. ;  paint  for  the  cheeks,  with 
the  proper  brushes  for  laying  it  on  ;  cosmetics, 
ear-rings,  but  no  diamonds ;  almonds,  dates, 
nuts,  grapes,  figs,  chestnuts,  loaves  of  bread, 
with  the  name  of  the  baker  stamped  upon 
them,  iron  stoves,  apothecaries'  drugs,  of  all 
sorts — among  other  things,  a  box  of  pills, 
gilded ;  surgeons'  instruments  of  all  kinds, 
much  such  as  are  used  at  the  present  day  ; 
play-bills,  quack  advertisements,  notices  of 
sights  and  shows  posted  up  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets  —  according  to  Johnson,  in  "mon- 
strous bad  Latin  ;  "  opera  tickets,  on  ivory, 
bits  for  horses,  cruppers  and  stirrups,  candela- 
bra, and  lamps  of  the  most  graceful,  delicate, 
and  ingenious  designs,  and  which  to-day  serve 
as  models  for  articles  of  the  kind  in  present 
use. 

These,  and  other  objects  of  a  similar  kind, 
more  than  could  easily  be  enumerated,  crowd 
the  halls  and  the  shelves  of  the  two  Museums 
at  Portici  and  Naples. 

For    these    interesting    relics    of    a    former 


192  NAPLES. 

world,  Naples  and  its  Museums  are  famous  ; 
such  objects  are  nowhere  else  to  be  seen  — 
and  equally  famous  is  it,  as  I  endeavored  first 
to  sliow,  for  the  magnificence  and  variety  of 
its  natural  scenery  ;  very  little  remarkable  is  it 
for  any  thing  man  has  made  or  done  there  — 
but  infinitely  so  for  the  creative  and  destructive 
agencies  of  nature  —  for  the  unequalled  beau- 
ties lavished  every  where  over  the  surface  of 
the  soil,  and  for  the  tremendous  and  fatal  forces 
it  has  ever  held,  and  still  holds,  concealed  but 
just  beneath  it. 


THE  ITALIANS  OF  MIDDLE  ITALY. 


17 


THE  ITALIANS  OF  MIDDLE  ITALY. 


I  AM  led  to  speak  of  this  people,  because  I 
have  lately  passed  some  time  among  them  and 
became  quite  attached  to  them  —  because  I 
sympathized  with  them  in  their  brief  hour  of 
political  prosperity,  and  now  pity  them  in  their 
reverses  and  disappointment.  It  does  us  all 
good,  to  be  told  how  any  of  our  neighbors  of 
the  great  human  family  are  living  from  day  to 
day.  We  are  apt  to  be  greedy  listeners  to  any 
who  have  visited  foreign  lands,  whether  the 
nearest  and  most  familiar,  as  England,  or  the 
strangest  and  most  remote,  as  the  neighborhood 
of  Lake  Chad,  in  Africa,  and  who  will  relate 
any  of  their  experiences.  Not  so  much  do  we 
care  for  their  reflections  and  their  philosophy,  as 


1  0()  THE    ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE     ITALY. 

for  their  facts  and  experiences.  An  excellent 
influence  Hows  outwards  from  the  reports  of 
the  traveller,  whether  he  be  an  ordinary  or  ex- 
traordinary man.  They  constitute  one  of  the 
strongest  links  that  help  to  bind  together  the 
members  of  widely  separated  communities. 

I  came  to  like,  and  even  love,  what  I  was 
able  to  see  and  know  of  the  Italians  and  the 
Italian  character.  I  saw  no  people  abroad 
with  whom  I  would  rather  dwell,  if  I  must 
leave  my  own  country.  Not  by  any  means 
that  they  are  without  faults.  But  if  they  had 
some  faults,  as  I  shall  proceed  to  specify,  they 
had  so  many  of  the  virtues  and  graces  of  so- 
cial intercourse,  that  no  people  could  be  more 
agreeable  in  their  demeanor,  either  toward  one 
another,  or  toward  the  stranger  and  foreigner. 
The  grace  of  beauty  in  manner  is  something. 
It  will  not  make  up  for  the  want  of  solid 
worth  —  but  how  much  is  gained  if  worth  is 
made  attractive  and  lovely  by  courtesy.  Smiles 
cost  nothing  ;  they  are  a  cheap,  and  may  be  an 
aliinidaiit,  currency.  And  when  they  are  not 
the  mechanical  smile   of  hypocrisy,  they  are 


THE    MODERN    ITALIAN.  197 

worth  almost  as  much  as  the  virtues  they 
adorn.  They  seemed  a  more  agreeable  peo- 
ple than  our  cousins,  the  English  —  it  may 
be,  or  it  may  not  be,  with  more  absolute  merit, 
at  the  same  time  —  but,  at  any  rate,  more 
agreeable,  from  the  winning  manner  of  which 
I  speak.  The  English  are  not  on  a  sudden 
acquaintance  a  very  pleasing  people.  They 
hardly  strike  one  as  amiable.  They  have 
many  great  traits,  but  they  are  not  remarkable 
for  those  which  make  a  people  generally  liked 
or  loved.  Their  genius  in  literature,  their 
power  in  arms,  are  not  to  be  disputed  or  de- 
nied. But  still,  after  all,  it  is  not  any  number 
of  Miltons  or  Shakspeares,  nor  any  amount  of 
bayonets  or  ships  of  war,  that  will  have  much 
effect  to  attract  one  nation  to  another.  There 
must  be  a  natural  amiableness  and  warmth  of 
heart  —  or,  otherwise,  a  religion  without  cant 
to  do  that. 

The   modern   Italian   is  a  descendant   in  a 

direct  line  of  the  ancient  Roman.     But  shoots 

from  many  other  stocks  have  been  grafted  in, 
\1* 


198  TFIE    ITALIAN'S    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

and  the  character  of  tlie  old  Roman  has  come 
in  time  to  be  supplanted  by  a  very  dilTerent 
one.  He  was  distinctively  the  lover  of  war. 
He  loved  nothing  but  war.  Rome  had  not, 
till  it  had  stood  nearly  seven  hundred  years, 
any  thing  that  could  be  called  a  literature; 
and  it  never  had  much  art  ;  and  what  it 
had  was  Greek,  or  imitation  of  Greek.  Their 
occupation  and  their  amusement  was  to  assail 
the  world  and  subdue  it  ;  and  having  but  that 
one  object  before  them,  they  succeeded  to 
their  heart's  content.  A  fierce,  war-loving 
people,  proud  and  unlovely,  always  magnifi- 
cent, often  magnanimous,  they  were  a  people 
too  selfish,  cruel,  arrogant,  to  be  loved.  If 
their  aim  was  to  rule  the  world,  the  effect  was 
to  be  cordially  hated  by  the  world  in  return. 
And  the  day  came  at  length  when  the  hatred 
of  centuries  bore  its  natural  fruit,  and  Rome 
fell,  her  conquerors  spreading  themselves  all 
over  her  soil,  and  a  thousand  various  races 
mingling  in  to  change  the  character  and  blood 
of  the  ancient  inhabitant.  The  Italian  has 
more  of  Roman  blood  in   his  veins  than  any 


THE    MODERN    ROMAN.  199 

other  people  ;  and  of  Italians,  the  modern 
Roman,  we  may  suppose,  more  than  any  other 
part  of  Italy.  Yet  but  little  resemblance  re- 
mains, even  in  him,  in  character,  to  the  old 
Roman.  It  is  comparatively  a  mild  and  gentle 
race  —  the  Tuscans  particularly  so.  The 
modern  Roman  has  more  gravity,  almost  se- 
verity, in  his  aspect,  and  therein  approaches 
nearer  than  any  other,  his  remote  ancestor. 
But  he  is  hardly  more  a  lover  of  war  than  the 
Tuscan.  The  old  Roman,  in  truth,  survives 
not  in  any  of  tlie  Italian  family  ;  and  if  any 
where  on  the  face  of  the  earth  now,  in  the 
modern  Englishman. 

He  has  shown  tlie  same  love  of  unscrupu- 
lous war  ;  the  same  ambition,  the  same  lust  of 
dominion,  with  the  same  general  object  in 
view  —  money  —  national  wealth.  And  he 
has  succeeded  in  his  marauding  excursions  into 
distant  parts  of  the  world,  a  hemisphere  apart, 
till  he  has  reduced  a  very  considerable  part  of 
it,  of  barbarous  but  comparatively  feeble  pow- 
ers, yet  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view  enor- 
mously profitable   regions,  to   his  sway.     He 


200  THE     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

shows  the  same  moral  traits  as  the  old  Roman 
—  tiie  same  that  too  much  power,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  will  always  generate.  He  is  nnjnst, 
arrogant,  selfish,  insolent.  Snch  a  people,  as 
such  individuals,  may  be  feared,  but  never 
loved.  There  was  no  great  amount  of  love, 
we  know,  on  the  part  of  the  Sicilians  or  Co- 
rinthians towards  Verres  or  Mummius,  or  to- 
ward the  tyrant  republic  who  sent  them  forth 
to  prey  on  her  defenceless  provinces.  And  the 
one  lunidrcd  millions  of  Hindoos  and  others, 
ground  down  beneath  the  military  sway  of 
England,  have  as  little  probably  toward  her  — 
no  more  than  it  is  natural  or  possible  for  slaves 
to  have  toward  masters.  The  English  people 
have  been  nursed  into  a  deeper  selfishness  and 
disregard  of  the  rights  and  sufferings  of  those 
whom  they  have  subjected  and  rule,  than  in 
the  case  of  the  Roman.  The  Roman  was  by 
his  position  in  the  very  midst  of  the  kingdoms 
he  ruled,  held  in  wholesome  check,  both  by 
apprehension  of  retaliations  and  rebellions, 
and  by  actual  experience  of  such  revenges. 
The  Englishman,  unfortunately  for  his  char- 


THE    MODERN    ROMAN.  201 

acter,  dwelling  remote  and  secure  in  his  island 
home,  the  groans  of  the  enslaved  and  captive 
Hindoo  never  reach  the  ear  of  the  haughty 
noble,  the  lordly  banker,  the  luxurious  India 
merchant,  rioting  all  in  the  wealth  wrung  from 
oppressed  kings,  princes,  peasantry  of  the  far 
East.*     The  people  of  England,  effecting  their 


*  And  to  this  day  they  have  nnt  reached  the  ear  of  the  English 
people.  And  if  the  honorable  Company  could  not  hear  the  cry  of 
oppression  as  it  arose  under  Clive,  and  the  Proprietors  and  Di- 
rectors in  London  could  not  hear  it,  and  Parliament  itself  could 
not,  the  ears  of  all  being  stuffed  with  gold,  it  was  not  reason  that 
the  people  should,  who  all  indirectly  shared  in  the  profit  and 
the  plunder.  A  more  loathsome  history  of  stupendous  injustice, 
fraud,  oppression,  extortion,  of  the  extent  to  which  the  lust  of 
money  can  blind  and  kill  the  moral  sense,  has  never  been  written, 
than  that  of  the  establishment  and  management  of  the  British 
East  India  Company.  The  cupidity  and  cruelty  of  American 
slaveholders  has  never  approached  that  of  English  merchants,  in 
the  miseries  they  have  inflicted  upon  Hindostan.  Not  less  than 
half  a  million  sterling  did  that  remorseless  robber,  Clive,  in  a 
course  of  nine  years,  transmit  to  England,  received  in  the  form  of 
"  presents,"  as  they  were  termed,  in  plain  English,  in  various 
forms  of  extortion  ;  and,  in  the  same  period  of  time,  by  other 
favored  swindlers,  five  millions  more.  "This  practice  of  [pres- 
ents] "  says  Mill,  "  in  the  first  place  laid  nabobs,  rulers,  and  other 
leading  men  of  the  country,  under  endless  and  unlimited  oppres- 
sion ;  because  so  long  as  they  on  whom  their  whole  power  and 
influence  depended  were  pleased  to  desire  presents,  nothing  could 
be  withheld  which  they  either  possessed,  or  had  it  in  their  power 
to  ravage  and  extort."  He  says,  beside  the  presents  which  were 
acknowledged,  there  were  others,  the  knowledge  of  which  was 
concealed,  "the  amount  of  which  it  would  not  be  easy  to  form  a 


202  THE     ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLF.    ITALY. 

triumphs  by  armies  and  navies  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world,  have,  themselves,  notwith- 
standing all  the  wars  waged  there,  the  oceans 
of  blood  shed  there,  never  heard  the  sound  of 
a  gun  or  a  drum,  nor  been  shocked  by  the 
sight  of  a  single  drop  of  human  blood.  The 
people  have  felt  no  evil,  experienced  no  suffer- 
ing, nor  witnessed  it  on  the  part  of  those  who 
have.  A  school  fatal  to  the  character  of  any 
nation  —  educating  it  to  a  selfishness,  which, 
unchecked,  must  in  time  enlist  against  it  the 
antipathies  of  mankind. 

I  have  observed  that  the  modern  Italians  are 
not  a  warlike  people,  but  the  contrary  —  yet  it 
is  important  and  only  just  to  add,  that  they  are 
lovers  of  liberty,  like  their  remote  ancestors  of 


conjecture."  Even  the  Directors,  in  one  instance  at  least,  confess 
the  enormities  against  which  they  felt  it  necessary  to  remonstrate, 
and  say:  "To  this  [presents]  we  must  add,  that  we  think  the 
vast  fortunes  acquired  in  the  inland  trade  have  hecn  olitained  by 
a  scene  of  the  most  tyrannic  and  oppressive  conduct  tliatever  was 
known  in  any  age  or  country."  Though  Mill  is  evidently  a  very 
iioncst,  fair-minded  writer,  it  is  quite  plain  he  never  tells  the 
whole  truth  where  it  would  be  too  much  to  the  disadvantage  of 
his  country.  This  chapter  in  the  history  of  human  wrongs  re- 
mains yet  to  1)0  written  —  but  not  by  an  Englisliinan. 


THE    MODERN    ITALIAN.  203 

the  old  Republic  —  but  at  the  same  tfme  too 
amiable  a  people,  and  too  averse  to  war,  to  be 
ever  able  to  secure  or  retain  their  jnst  rights. 
When  Rome  fell,  first  the  Western  Empire, 
then  the  Eastern,  and  Constantinople,  was  seiz- 
ed by  the  Tnrks,  Italy  was  resolved  gradually 
into  a  variety  of  independent  states  —  larger 
and  smaller.  But  larger  or  smaller,  they  were 
all  republics  ;  though  often  in  name,  rather 
than  marked  by  the  character  which  we  mean 
by  that  name.  They  were  easily  tyraiuiized 
over,  and  by  some  of  the  most  bloody  and  ex- 
ecrable tyrants  of  which  history  has  preserved 
any  account,  and  too  easily,  even  to  slavish- 
ness,  submitted  to  the  tyranny.  Still  their 
theory,  and  their  preference,  was  for  the 
republican  form.  They  felt  that  liberty  was 
the  grand  primal  blessing ;  secure  that,  and  all 
else  would  follow.  Accordingly  throughout 
the  middle  ages,  the  Italian  republics,  though 
with  unceasing  warfare,  and  endless  rivalries 
and  jealousies,  retained  their  freedom  —  the 
form  at  least  —  whatever  else  they  lost  they 
adhered  to  that,  and  have  continued  at  heart 


204  THE     ITALIANS     OF    MIDDLE    ITALY, 

and  ill  their  free  spirit,  republicans,  to  this 
day,  and  writhe  in  their  cliains  whenever 
compelled,  as  they  often  have  been,  by  cir- 
cumstances, to  wear  them.  Within  the  last 
few  years  they  have  made  the  most  desperate 
struggles  for  freedom  against  the  Austrian 
power,  and  have  carried  with  them  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  world,  but  like  Laocoon  in  the 
coils  of  the  serpent  they  have  struggled  in 
vain,  and  are  once  more  politically  crushed 
and  dead.  And  they  have  failed  mainly 
through  faults  in  their  own  character.  They 
have  still  the  character  they  displayed  through- 
out the  middle  ages.  They  have  no  spirit 
of  union  among  their  many  states  —  full  of 
mutual  jealousies.  Each  wishing  to  be  first ; 
none  willing  to  surrender  a  portion  of  right 
and  power  for  the  sake  of  the  good  of 
the  whole.  They  are  all  of  them  what  our 
South  Carolina  is,  alone  fortunately,  in  its 
character  —  all  for  self — ready  to  throw  the 
world  into  universal  confusion  and  war,  rather 
than  not  be  able  to  have  her  own  way  —  like 
a  petted  baby.     A  few  Carolinas  would  reduce 


THE     MODERN     ITALIAN.  205 

our  country  to  the  miserable  condition  of  the 
Italian  republics.  The  want  of  a  spirit  of 
union  and  amity  has  destroyed  them.  That 
has  been  and  is  the  radical  fault  of  their  char- 
acter. Added  to  that,  there  is  an  indisposition 
to  make  the  various  sacrifices  and  efforts  essen- 
tial to  crown  any  efforts  for  freedom  with 
success.  They  are  too  little  like  English  and 
Americans  in  this  regard.  Had  they  shown 
the  spirit  of  self-renunciation,  and  desire  of 
union,  so  essential  under  their  circumstances, 
when  the  war  in  Lombardy  first  broke  out  three 
years  ago  —  if  Tuscany,  when  she  sent  six 
thousand  men  to  the  plain  of  Milan,  had  sent 
ten  or  twenty  thousand  as  she  might  have 
done,  and  other  states  in  like  proportion  — 
Austria  never  could  have  entered  Italy,  and  a 
grand  Italian  nation  might  have  been  formed. 
Lombardy  was  the  gate  of  Italy,  the  gate  once 
off  the  hinges,  and  it  was  all  over.  But 
mutual  jealousies  and  a  common  sluggishness 
blasted  all  the  hopes  of  hopeful  and  aspiring 
spirits.     They  all  loved  their  present  comforts 

too  well  to  make  the  requisite   sacrifices  and 
18 


2UG  THE     ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE     ITALY. 

exertions,  even  though  permanent  peace  and 
liberty  were  the  certain  prize.  They  loved  too 
well  their  homes,  their  cafes,  their  cigars,  their 
walks  in  the  street,  their  loiterings  in  galleries, 
their  drives  on  the  Cascina  and  the  Corso,  and 
the  mimic  war  which  can  be  so  safely  enjoyed 
in  glorious  uniforms  with  opera  bands  of  music 
up  and  down  the  streets  of  their  capitals.  So 
dilfcrcnt  from  our  people  and  the  whole  Eng- 
lish race.  We  Anglo-Americans  are  just  at 
the  other  extreme  of  character.  We  are  utter- 
ly destitute  of  all  softness.  In  the  American 
there  is  nothing  of  the  woman,  we  are 
ready  to  say  too  little.  We  love  war,  for  its 
own  sake.  Almost  without  any  question  as 
to  the  justice  of  a  cause,  fifty  out  of  any 
liiiiulred  of  our  citizens  are  ready  for  a  fight. 
If  the  cause  seem  a  little  better  than  bad, 
seventy-five  per  cent,  will  burn  for  a  trial 
of  strength  —  and,  if  for  either,  a  party,  or 
the  country,  every  partisan,  or  every  citizen  as 
the  case  may  be,  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tancy will  shoulder  his  musket.  I  was  assured 
that    the   Tuscans  fought  bravely  when  once 


RELIGION  OF  THE   ITALIAN.  207 

Oil  the  field.  No  doubt.  Every  man  is  brave, 
and  about  equally  so  when  driven  into  a  cor- 
ner. But  a  people  are  never  truly  brave  till 
they  are  so  equally  every  where  ;  —  brave 
through  the  power  of  a  principle,  not  mere 
animal  fury  —  as  was  the  case  in  the  opening 
of  our  revolution  —  when  there  was  no  beat- 
ing up  of  recruits,  but  the  people,  of  their  own 
movement,  covered  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill 
with  their  blue  frocks  —  anticipating  all  formal 
declaration  of  war.  Even  in  such  a  war  as 
this  with  Mexico,  volunteers  swarmed  up  as 
if  to  a  fight  for  freedom  and  justice. 

The  Italian,  as  he  loves  liberty,  at  least 
theoretically,  so  does  he  love  religion,  at  least 
as  a  form  and  a  dogma.  They  are  a  religious 
people  — religious  in  their  sense,  superstitious 
in  ours.  One  needs  no  more  than  to  be  present 
in  a  Catholic  church,  to  be  convinced  of  the 
depth  and  reality  of  the  religious  sentiment, 
in  a  word,  of  their  piety  on  the  part  of  the 
people  at  large — you  will  see  the  evidences 
of  it  in  any  church  you  may  enter,  —  and  no 


208  THK    ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

more  than  to  mingle  witli  them  in  tlie  inter- 
course of  life,  to  see  how  distinct  a  thing 
religion  is,  as  they  understand  it,  from  religion 
as  we  understand  it,  i.  e.,  righteousness.  It  is 
this  grand  misapprehension  as  to  what  religion 
means  and  ought  to  be,  which  conducts  di- 
rectly to  the  formation  of  those  parts  of  the 
Italian  character  which  are  obnoxious  to 
common  censure. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  —  when  it  is 
their  code  that  men  may  be  religious,  though 
destitute  of  virtue,  and  still  be  saved  ;  may  be 
virtuous,  yet  if  without  religion  in  their  sense, 
still  be  damned.  Piety,  and  morals,  suffer 
grievous  divorce.  They  will  commit  the 
worst  deed  and  consider  it  no  incompatibility 
or  inconsistency  to  be  at  the  same  time  very 
pious,  and  through  their  prayers  and  love  of 
God  and  the  Virgin,  very  safe.  Of  course 
such  notions  justify  and  defend  the  grossest 
moral  misdemeanors.  That  a  man,  upon  going 
through  forms  and  paying  certain  fees,  can  ob- 
tain divine  absolution  for  whatever  wrongs  and 
crimes  he  may  commit,  is  a  dogma  that  places 


THE      CATHOLIC     FAITH.  209 

CFiristianity  below  paganism.  The  only  won-  \ 
der  is,  not  that  there  should  be  a  low  morality 
in  Catholic  countries,  but  that  there  should  be 
any  at  all — nor  would  there  be  any,  were  not 
the  force  of  nature  stronger  than  that  of  super- 
stition, or  the  force  of  human  error.  It  shows 
how  deeply  Heaven  has  planted  a  natural 
conscience,  which  no  device  or  mischievous 
doctrine  of  man  has  been  able  wholly  to 
pluck  up.  The  faults  of  the  Irish  character, 
of  which  we  justly  complain  every  day,  are 
traceable  directly  to  their  religion  as  we  can 
all  their  good  traits,  which  vastly  abound  over 
the  other,  never  to  their  religion  but  to  their 
nature.  The  Irish  nature  unperverted  by  their 
religion  is  one  of  generosity,  warm-heartedness, 
love  ;  their  religion  often  perverts  that  nature 
into  vindictiveness,  falsehood  and  blood.  It  is 
not  national  character  that  makes  the  Irish  and 
Italian  so  much  alike,  but  the  Catholic  faith, 
which,  to  a  great  extent,  breaks  down  and  sub- 
verts great  natural  lines  of  difference,  and  runs 
all  alike  in  one  mould. 

The  great  extent  to  which  the  love  of  the 
18» 


210  THE     ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE     ITALY, 

Virgin  is  carried,  and  to  which  it  supplants  the 
worsliip  of  Christ  and  God,  one  could  not  be- 
lieve without  witnessing.  The  love  of  the 
Virgin  amounts  to  a  passion.*  They  pour  out 
their  sorrows  and  love  into  her  sympathizing 
human  heart,  and  as  surely  expect  relief  and 
pardon  by  her  intercession  as  if  they  poured 
them  out  at  the  throne  of  God.  And  in  pro- 
portion as  they  show  love  and  adoration  of  her, 
do  they  look  for  her  interference  for  salvation. 
Accordingly  there  are  no  signs  of  love  and  de- 
votion, which  in  their  churches  they  do  not 
lavish  upon  the  image  of  the  mother  of  God, 
bedizened  with  all  the  fine  clothing  and  tinsel 
they  can  possibly  load  her  with.  And  there 
mingles  witli  this  worship  too  much  of  a  purely 
human  feeling.  On  one  occasion  of  special 
service,  they  who  came  up  one  after  ano- 
ther to  do  her  homage  —  dressed  rather  more 
splendidly  than  common,  holding  her  child  on 


*  A  Jiook  well  worth  reading  on  this  suliject  is  one  entitled 
"  JMornings  with  the  Jesuits"  —  in  which  you  will  find  the 
haldest  idolatry  abundantly  justified  and  defended  by  the  Catho- 
lic priest. 


WORSHIP    OF    THE    VIRGIN.  211 

her  knee — seemed  incapable  of  parting  with 
her,  they  would  approach  her,  kneel,  and,  after 
a  silent  prayer,  rise,  and  kiss  her  silver  foot, 
then  lay  their  cheek  upon  it,  first  on  one 
side,  then  on  the  other,  as  if  hardly  able  to 
tear  themselves  away  from  embracing  it,  so  as 
to  give  place  to  another  of  the  crowd,  who 
would  then  advance  and  go  through  the  same 
demonstrations.  On  the  mother's  knee  sat  all 
the  while  the  young  Christ  —  but  wholly  un- 
noticed, quite  neglected  ;  all  was  forgotten  for 
the  love  and  worship  of  the  beautiful  mother. 
If  any  one  remembers  the  novel  of  "  The 
Monk,"  by  Monk  Lewis,  he  will  see  in  such 
ceremonies  the  entering  wedge  of  the  thoughts, 
by  which  he  was  led  astray. 

Italian  life  cannot  be  described  without  some 
notice  of  the  Pope,  the  principal  figure  in  any 
representation  of  it.  To  see  him,  leads  a  Pro- 
testant to  some  new  conclusions  on  the  subject 
of  Popery,  and  would  go  far  to  dissipate  any 
lurking  desire  he  might  before  have  cherished 
for  that  form  of  Christianity.     For  myself,  I 


212 


THE    ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 


caimot  deny  that  tliere  are  some  attractive 
charms  about  this  form  of  religion,  which 
need  strong  counteracting  correctives  to  over- 
come them.  There  are  cliarms  other  and  better 
than  can  be  answered  by  charging  them  as 
romantic.  There  is  much  in  its  forms  one 
Avonld  like  to  see  transferred  to  Protestantism. 
Tliere  is,  for  example,  a  beauty,  and  even  a 
power,  in  the  always  open  door  of  the  .Cath- 
olic church  or  cathedral,  where  one  may  enter 
at  any  moment  of  devotional  feeling,  seclude 
himself  in  some  obscure  patt  of  the  interior, 
and  give  himself  to  social  devotion  or  private 
prayer,  according  to  his  feeling  —  which,  to- 
gether with  the  other  influences  of  the  place, 
might  originate  or  confirm  principles  or  emo- 
tions of  lasting  value  to  the  character  and 
life.  Such  opportunity  of  retirement  is  not 
essential  to  either  the  existence  or  growth  of 
a  genuine  religion,  but  it  is  an  aid  at  least  to 
many  Christians  of  a  particular  temperament. 
Christ  says  that  worship  should  be  in  spirit 
and  truth;  and  that  is  the  truest  worship:  but 
forms  may   help  us    to    attain    to    the    spirit. 


CATHOLICISM.  213 

Under  Protestantism  for  those  of  the  middle  \ 
and  lower  classes  —  there  is  no  religious  home ; 
there  is  a  domestic  home  — but  no  corner  for 
privacy.  The  Catholic  Church  with  its  vast 
extent  generally,  and  its  numerous  chapels, 
has  in  it  the  absolute  seclusion  of  a  desert. 
Any  one  and  every  one  there,  can  find  the  / 
solitude,  rest,  retirement,  and  so  the  peace,  he 
craves.  The  architectural  beauty  of  their 
churches  serves  as  an  additional  attraction  — 
the  dimly  lighted  aisles,  the  lofty  and  richly 
decorated  ceilings  and  walls,  the  painted  win- 
dows, have  doubtless  an  effect  to  invite  and 
detain  the  mind,  to  make  it  more  willing  to 
come,  and  more  willing  remain.  The  de- 
vout attitude  which  the  worshipper  imme- 
diately assumes  as  he  reaches  the  pavement 
of  the  church,  or  the  vicinity  of  the  altar, 
crossing  himself  and  throwing  himself  upon 
his  knees,  is  of  directly  religious  effect.  Then 
the  music,  always  at  the  morning  and  evening 
services,  and  often  breaking  in  at  other  times 
—  organ,  or  choir  and  chant,  or  both  —  all  this 
one  would  like  and  prefer,  whether  Protestant 
or  Catholic. 


214  THE     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

Witnessing  these  beautiful  forms  of  relig- 
ion, under  some  particular  states  of  mind 
and  feeling,  and  it  cannot  be  thought  strange 
that  many  persons  of  natural  sensibility, 
should,  forgetting  all  else  of  the  Catholic 
faith,  be  won  over  to  it  by  the  beauty  of  the 
exterior  service ;  and,  really,  never  heartily 
adopt  much  of  the  interior  doctrine,  or  without 
much  sophistication.  But  to  witness  the  cere- 
monies of  the  Mass,  and  much  else  of  the 
worship,  would,  with  most  minds,  however 
they  might  reasonably  enough  fancy  such 
other  forms  as  I  have  just  spoken  of,  effectu- 
ally scatter  to  the  winds  all  else,  and  restore 
the  pure  ascendancy  of  reason.  These  other 
parts  of  the  worship  would  strike  you  as  so  far 
removed  from  any  thing  you  could  possibly 
deem  to  be  Christianity,  as  so  at  variance  with 
the  precepts  of  Christ,  so  discordant  with  the 
simplicity  of  his  religion,  that  you  could  only 
regard  it  as  some  wonderful  theatrical  show, 
but   without   ])Iace   in   the   system   of  Christ. 

By  this  you  would  be  more  forcibly  struck 
still,   if  you   should  have  the   opportunity  to 


THE    POPE    AT    WORSHIP.  215 

witness  the  Pope  at  worship  in  his  private 
chapel  on  the  duirinal,  or  in  the  side  chapel 
of  St.  Peter's.  I  saw  him  once  in  the  chapel 
on  the  Qiiirinal.  I  think  it  would  have  cured 
any  one  of  a  leaning  toward  Catholicism,  who 
should  have  been  present.  He  was  dressed  in 
brocades  heavy  with  embroidery  and  gold  ; 
the  triple  crown  upon  his  head,  and  beneath 
the  outermost  layer  of  rich  brocades,  other 
garments  of  various  dyes  equally  rich.  He 
was  seated  on  his  throne.  On  each  side  stood 
a  Roman  Prince,  of  highest  rank  and  oldest 
blood.  Then  several  cardinals  and  bishops. 
As  the  worship  opened  and  proceeded,  it  would 
be  observed  that  the  Pope  was  permitted  to 
do  nothing  for  himself.  If  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  read  his  part  from  the  liturgy,  an 
aged  cardinal  of  seventy  or  eighty  years  of 
age  approached,  with  a  huge  volume,  which  he 
opened,  kneeled,  and  held,  in  a  manner  con- 
venient for  his  holiness  to  read  his  lessons 
from  —  pages  kneeling  at  the  same  time  and 
holding  wax  torches,  though  it  was  bright 
noon-day.     When  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 


/ 


210  Tin:     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

descend  and  a])proacli  the  altar,  first  one  of  the 
cardinals  rose,  and  after  kneeling,  removed  his 
crown  from  his  head  ;  then  the  two  Roman 
princes,  one  on  each  side,  drew  near  and 
turned  back  the  outer  folds  of  his  outer  bro- 
cade, then  other  cardinals  the  inner  folds  of  his 
other  clothes  so  tiiat  he  could  move,  when  he 
rose,  and  preceded  by  the  pages  bearing  can- 
dles, and  by  the  cardinals,  stood,  or  kneeled  at 
the  altar ;  and  when  his  part  of  the  service  was 
done,  resumed  his  seat  on  his  throne,  when 
every  part  of  his  dress  was  restored  as  it  was 
before  ;  and  again  and  again  the  same  form 
was  rej)eated.  All  the  while  he  never  moving 
his  finger,  but  treated  throughout  as  if  he  were 
an  Eastern  despot,  or  helpless  baby.  There 
is  nothing  exaggerated  in  this,  nothing  unu- 
sual; it  may  be  seen  by  any  who  will  take  the 
pains  to  be  present.  But  one  asks  if  all  this  is 
after  the  manner  of  Christ  ? 

For  the  present  Pope,  Pio  Nono,  in  his  per- 
sonal character,  he  is  believed  to  be  a  pure  and 
amiable  person.  His  countenance  would  indi- 
cate amiability,  but  weakness  as  well.     He  be- 


THE    PRESENT    POPE.  217 

gall  his  career  with  a  policy  unexpectedly  libe- 
ral. He  was,  at  the  outset  of  his  course,  a 
reformer,  and,  it  has  commonly  been  believed, 
sincere  in  his  measures.  But  steps  like  his 
could  not  be  taken  without  giving  umbrage 
to  the  neighboring  despotisms.  He  became 
alarmed  by  private  interference  and  remon- 
strances, we  may  suppose,  of  both  Austria 
and  Naples  —  and  by  advice  and  threat- 
en ings  was  compelled  to  commence  those 
retrograde  movements,  so  contradictory  to  his 
first  acts  and  repeated  promises ;  so  that  he 
was  at  once  regarded  as  a  false-hearted  and 
treacherous  man.  The  whole  Roman  people 
felt  themselves  to  have  been  deceived  ;  after  a 
variety  of  changes  on  one  side  and  the  other, 
they  led  to  that  violent  formation  of  the 
liberal  ministry,  which  the  Pope  was  com- 
pelled to  appoint  at  the  cannon's  mouth  —  to 
the  assassination  of  his  prime  minister  —  to 
his  flight  to  Naples — then  to  the  French 
interference  —  the  siege  of  Rome,  and  ulti- 
mately to  the  complete  return  of  the  rule  of 

despotism  and  darkness. 
19 


21S  THE     ITALIANS    OF    MinOLK     ITALY. 

The  Italians  are  a  people  of  humane  senti- 
ments, and  kindly  disposed  as  well  as  formally 
and  methodically  charitable.  But  governed, 
in  this  case,  as  in  respect  to  religion,  by  im- 
pulse and  feeling  rather  than  guided  by  prin- 
ciple. Their  charity  is  a  child  of  their  natural 
kind-heartedness.  They  do  not  stop  to  reason 
about  the  matter;  they  give  without  reflection 
to  all  who  ask.  In  this  sense,  Florence  is  but 
one  great  house  of  charity.  Hundreds  and 
thousands  of  maimed,  halt,  blind,  poor,  are 
supported  by  the  alms  solicited  from  door  to 
door,  and  in  the  streets.  A  priest  whom  I 
knew  well  and  long,  with  Avhom  I  walked 
almost  every  day,  never  passed  a  beggar  with- 
out giving  him  something,  and  exhorting  me 
to  do  the  same,  —  not  much,  he  said,  lest  it 
should  be  an  encouragement  to  any  to  con- 
tinue in  the  vocation,  but  something,  that  no  one 
need  suffer,  by  any  possibility,  for  the  want  of 
a  piece  of  bread.  His  charity  was  commonly 
limited  to  a  quaUHnn,  i.  e.,  the  fourth  part  of  a 
cent.  Hut  besides  this  great  poor-house  of  the 
whole  city,  there  are  no  less  tlian  forty  hos- 


CHARITIES  EDUCATION.  219 

pitals  ill  a  population  of  seventy  thousand  ; 
thirty-five  convents,  sixty  nunneries,  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-two  churches,  all  of  which 
are  institutions  of  charity  to  a  considerable 
extent.  With  such  encouragements  and  temp- 
tations to  poverty,  no  one  can  wonder  at  the 
crowds  of  beggars,  that  infest  not  only  Flor- 
ence, but  all  the  cities  —  the  highways,  and  by- 
ways of  all  Italy. 

Of  education  in  Italy,  there  is  not  much  ; 
and  what  there  is,  with  kw  exceptions,  is  not 
for  the  people,  but  the  higher  circles.  Of 
learning,  there  is  a  good  deal,  from  that  of 
Cardinal  Mezzofanti,  who  reads,  speaks,  and 
writes  fifty  languages,  down  through  all  the 
convents,  monasteries,  and  propagandas,  by 
which  the  whole  priesthood  and  nobility  of 
the  country  are  educated.  For  the  classes  of 
the  rich  and  noble,  there  are  also  colleges  and 
high  schools.  But  of  common  school  educa- 
tion, as  with  us,  sown  broadcast  over  the 
land,  there  is  nothing.  And  such  is  the  gen- 
uine  effect   of  absolutism,   where  luxury  and 


220 


TUK     ITALIANS    OF    MinOLE     ITALY. 


learning  arc  restricted  to  nobles  and  princes, 
beggary  and  ignorance  vouchsafed  to  the  peo- 
ple. 

But  though  with  hut  little  general  educa- 
tion, the  Italians  are  a  people  of  great  refine- 
ment of  manners.  As  one  among  both  the 
causes  and  evidences  of  such  refinement,  I 
Avould  name  their  general  love  and  appreciation 
of  art ;  they  love  it  and  honor  it.  and  it  reflects 
an  additional  beauty  upon  their  character. 
Their  governments,  also,  honor  and  cherish  it. 
They  regard  it  as  a  means  of  education,  and  a 
source  of  iimocent  pleasure  contributing  large- 
ly to  the  happiness  of  their  people,  to  whom 
they  throw  open  all  their  treasures,  both  of 
sculpture  and  painting. 

In  both  Florence  and  Rome  the  public 
galleries  are  always  open,  free  of  charge,  and 
inviting  all  classes  equally  to  enter.  No  one 
is  there,  who  has  the  least  love  of  art,  Avho 
cannot  gratify  himself  with  not  only  seeing, 
but  studying  to  any  extent  he  may  desire,  the 
noblest  galleries  in  the  world.     Under  certain 


INFLUENCES    OF    ART.  221 

regulations  artists  are  permitted  to  set  np  their 
easels  and  improve  themselves  by  copying  any 
of  the  famous  works  that  hang  upon  the  walls. 
It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  country  people  from 
the  neighborhood  of  the  cities,  wandering 
through  the  galleries  and  saloons,  and  exam- 
ining at  their  leisure  the  great  masterpieces 
of  art.  It  is  easy  to  see  what  the  effect  must 
be,  in  imparting  not  only  additional  refinement 
to  the  character,  but  useful  information  on  the 
character  and  history  of  art,  and  in  connecting 
history  with  its  illustrations.  It  is  a  gratifica- 
tion, at  least,  having  one  day  read  a  portion  of 
Livy,  or  Tacitus,  the  next  day  to  see  the 
statues  or  busts  of  the  great  names,  of  which 
you  had  been  reading.  As  there  is  compara- 
tively little  common  education,  were  it  not  for 
the  art  which  is  every  where  exposed  to  view, 
not  only  in  galleries,  but  much  more  upon  the 
walls  of  churches,  and  upon  open  squares,  the 
common  people  would  hardly  manifest  those 
signs  of  general  cultivation  which  are  so  ob- 
servable   in    the    Italian.      We,   happily,   have 

every  where   the   education   of  the    common 
19* 


222  TUF.     ITALIANS    OK     MinnLE     ITALY. 

school  and  the  high  school  and  college  —  hut 
we  need  the  other  also.  And  if  there  could 
now  be  added  a  knowledge  of,  and  a  taste 
for  art,  by  throwing  open  such  galleries  as  we 
have  free  of  charge,  and  collecting  others,  and 
by  covering  the  walls  of  churches  with  Chris- 
tianity as  represented  by  the  painter's  art,  then 
would  every  means  have  been  resorted  to,  to 
raise  and  instruct  the  character,  and  no  one 
can  doubt  whether  such  means  would  exert  a 
favorable  influence  upon  the  mind  and  taste  of 
a  country. 

If  any  one  should  be  led  to  question  the 
advantage  of  such  displays  of  art  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  especially  of  the  antique,  I  can 
only  say,  that  in  all  the  multitude  of  specimens 
of  Greek  and  Roman  remains,  I  can  call  to 
mind  but  a  single  instance  of  a  want  of  the 
most  entire  purity  in  conception  and  execu- 
tion. In  seeing  so  much  of  the  art  of  the  old 
Pagan  world,  all  calculated  to  add  to,  rather 
than  obstruct,  moral  elevation,  I  was  led  to 
doubt  whether  we  were  in  the  habit  of  doing 
full  justice  to  the  morality  of  those  ages.      It 


INFLUENCES    OF    ART.  223 

seems  to  me  tlmt  if  the  world  had  ever  been 
as  corrupt  as  it  has  commonly  been  represent- 
ed, more  frequent  evidences  of  the  fact  would 
appear  in  their  sculpture,  wliich,  in  its  mere 
chance  preservation,  certainly  redounds  only  to 
the  credit  of  antiquity.  Singular  indeed  that 
sculpture  which  could  neither  perish  nor  lie, 
should  have  presented  no  more  examples  to 
shock  our  moral  sentiments,  if  the  habits  and 
manners  of  those  times  had  been  as  is  most 
commonly  represented.  Surely  we  ought  to 
consider,  in  this  relation,  that  it  would  be  no 
more  sensible  or  just  to  infer  the  general 
character  of  the  Roman  World  from  such 
monsters  as  Nero  and  Tiberius,  than  it  would 
to  infer  the  common  English  character,  and  the 
general  power  of  Christianity  at  that  period, 
from  such  dissolute  drunkards  as  Charles  II., 
and  George  lY.  When  I  surveyed  so  much 
statuary,  all  displaying  the  lines  and  forms  of 
the  most  chaste  and  elevated  beauty,  and  almost 
nothing  of  an  opposite  character,  it  was  a  sur- 
prise and  a  gratification  I  had  not  expected, 
and    tau2;ht  a  new  lesson  of  the  worth  of  that 


224  THE     ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE     ITALY. 

human  nature,  which,  under  all  dispensations, 
Pagan  as  well  as  Christian,  acknowledges  and 
reveres  purity  and  virtue. 

I  know  nothing  to  contradict  what  I  have 
said.  iMit  some  of  the  remains  in  Pompeii  and 
Ilercnlaneum,  and  those  certainly  are  bad 
enough,  according  to  statements  of  travellers 
—  for  I  did  not  see  them.  But  there  are 
works  of  art,  which  hang  noio  on  walls  in 
every  Christian  city  of  Europe,  which,  could 
they  be  preserved  in  any  w^ay  and  handed 
down  to  after  generations,  might  lead  to  the 
same  conclusion  about  us,  that  so  many  now 
draw  respecting  the  general  moral  condition  of 
the  Pompeians  and  Romans  —  and  neither 
would  be  just.  These  Pompeian  remains  de- 
scribe the  common  and  better  character  of  the 
people,  then  and  there,  not  much  more  truly, 
probably,  than  those  works  of  our  own,  I  have 
just  spoken  of,  would  our  general  character. 
In  both  cases  they  would  express  the  moral 
condition  of  comparatively  very  few. 

The  out-door  life  of  this  people,  both  in  re- 


OTTT-DOOR    LIFE.  225 

spect  to  labor  and  amusement?,  is  agreeable  and 
graceful.  In  tlie  country,  the  labor  done  by 
women  is  in  some  particulars  coarse,  hard,  and 
to  our  ideas  revolting,  being  that,  we  think, 
which  should  be  performed  exclusively  by 
men.  They  are  sometimes  seen  laboring  in 
the  fields  with  the  implements  used  by  men. 
And  very  often  yon  pass  them  on  the  roads 
with  burdens  borne  upon  the  head  which  we 
should  think  heavy  enough  for  a  horse  or  a 
mule.  Descending  one  day  from  the  Convent 
of  Yallombrosa,  about  twenty  miles  from  Flor- 
ence, I  was  overtaken  by  a  troop  of  countiy 
girls,  all  in  the  highest  spirits,  each  of  whom 
bore  upon  her  head  a  large  bundle  of  wood,  as 
large  as  could  be  bound  upon  a  jackass. 
They  were  girls  of  not  more  than  from  four- 
teen to  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  were  carry- 
ing these  heavy  loads  from  the  forests,  where 
they  had  collected  the  wood,  to  some  neigh- 
boring village  for  sale.  It  was  on  a  day  in 
August,  as  hot  as  our  hottest  summer  weather. 
It  seemed  too  severe  a  service  for  their  age 
and  sex,  and  as  if  it  could  scarcely  fail  to  bring 


22G  TlfE    ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

on  premature  old  age.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, the  bearing  of  such  burdens  was  alto- 
gether painful  to  witness.  Under  others 
slightly  dillercnt,  and  the  painful  would  disap- 
pear and  lose  itself  in  the  picturesqueness  of 
the  scene.  Let  the  same  troop  of  girls  be  seen 
at  the  time  of  the  vintage,  each  bearing  a 
loaded  basket  of  white  and  purple  grapes  to 
market,  the  full  bunches  of  the  ripe  fruit 
with  the  leaves  hanging  down  over  the  basket 
so  as  to  reach  the  shoulders  —  with  their 
pretty  head-dress,  bodice  and  gown  of  some 
strong  color,  scarlet,  white,  or  blue,  or  green, 
with  their  upright  form  and  elastic  step,  re- 
minding one  so  of  the  ancient  Greek  Cane- 
phoras  in  the  old  Greek  sculpture  —  and  the 
beauty  of  the  sight  might  make  one  forget  the 
hardship  to  which  the  life  often  exposes  them. 
Other  labors  seem  lighter,  but  I  do  not  know 
that  they  would  be  more  healthful  or  agree- 
able than  this  out-door  and  apparently  more 
severe  occupation.  Throughout  Tuscany  the 
girls  and  women  devote  themselves  exclu- 
sively, almost,  to  the  platting  of  the  beautiful 


OUT-DOOR    LIFE.  227 

Tuscan  straw,  of  which  are  made  the  elegant 
and  costly  bonnets,  which  are  every  where 
sought  at  such  prices.  No  cottage  door  can 
be  passed  where  the  inmates  will  not  be  seen 
weaving  this  delicate  braid.  They  in  Italy 
who  weave  this  Tuscan  braid  are  the  same 
who  in  America  would  achieve  their  indepen- 
dence at  the  cotton  mills  of  Lowell,  Manches- 
ter, and  Waltham.  There,  as  here,  industry  is 
a  national  trait,  notwithstanding  the  softness 
and  luxury  of  the  climate  ;  and  there,  as  here, 
claims  and  receives  with  unvarying  certainty 
its  large  reward  —  with  this  difference,  that 
the  young  Italian  girl  cannot  so  soon  boast 
the  independence  which  she  has  secured  by 
the  labor  of  her  own  hands.  The  wages  at 
straw  braiding  are  about  forty  cents  a  day. 

Among  the  poor,  the  traveller  is  often  pleas- 
ed to  see  the  mother  of  the  family,  or  some  oi 
the  elder  females,  as  they  watch  the  sheep, 
their  poultry,  or  young  kids, — for  fences 
there  are  none  for  the  protection  of  domestic 
property  of  this  sort,  —  at  the  same  time,  spin- 
ning, distaff  in- hand,  as  in  the  days  of  Homer, 


228  THE    ITALIANS    OF    MIDULK    ITALY. 

the  thread  which  afterwards  is  woven  into 
necessary  household  garments.  Attending  and 
feeding  the  silk-worm,  and  the  spinning  and 
weaving  of  the  silk,  are  other  occupations 
which  fitly  fall  to  the  lot  of  women.  For 
weaving  silk,  there  are  in  many  places  large 
manufactories;  but  looms  are  often  found 
both  in  the  cities  and  in  the  country,  in  the 
houses  and  cottages  of  the  laborer. 

Amusements  in  Italy  are  v»'ell  provided  for. 
The  Catholic  Church  arranges  that,  and  libe- 
rally. Not  that  the  church  makes  provision  for 
amusement  on  its  own  account,  but  that  in 
instituting  religions  days,  or  festa  days  as  they 
are  called,  holy-days  or  rest-days  are  also 
secured.  I  cannot  give  the  number  of  these 
week-day  Sabbaths,  but  it  is  very  great.  On 
those  days  work  is  suspended,  shops  are  shut, 
as  much,  at  least,  as  on  Sunday,  and  after  a 
brief  service  at  church,  the  rest  of  the  day  is 
passed  in  any  amusements  which  the  fancy 
dictates.  Sunday,  it  will  be  recollected,  is  a 
festa  day,  or  day  of  amusement,  as  well  as  of 


AMUSEMENTS.  229 

worship.  It  corresponds  more  nearly,  prob- 
ably, to  the  old  Jewish  idea  of  a  Sabbath,  than 
onrs  or  the  Puritan.  The  primary  idea  of  that 
day  was  evidently  rest.  It  was  securing  by 
religious  sanction,  one  day  at  least  ont  of 
seven,  when  the  poor  laborer,  the  weary  and 
exhausted  by  toil,  should  not  be  compelled  to 
work  —  when  religion  itself  interfered  and 
said.  Let  no  man,  rich  man  or  prince,  require 
tliee  to  work  on  this  day,  it  is  the  Sabbath  of 
the  Lord — thou  shalt  do  no  work.  Beyond 
that,  it  was  left  to  the  conscience  and  judg- 
ment of  the  individual  —  what  worship,  and 
how  much  should  be  paid.  The  Pharisees 
had  one  opinion  on  that  point,  Jesus  Christ 
quite  a  ditierent  one.  It  was  evidently,  I 
think,  from  the  New  Testament,  and  from 
History,  a  day  of  rest,  of  worship  and  of 
amusement  —  much  as  it  now  is  in  Catholic 
Europe.  There,  amusements  predominate, 
perhaps  a  little  too  much,  and  work  also  ;  as 
here  among  us,  ceremonial  worship  too  much. 
The  great  proportion  of  shops  in  Italy  are 
shut.     But  the   markets,  many  groceries,  and 


230  THE     ITALrANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

all  j)laccs  for  the  sale  of  eatables  of  any  kind, 
and  all  places  of  amusement  are  open,  and  do 
a  full  business.  The  churches  are  open,  and 
during  the  first  half  of  the  day  crowded.  Af- 
terwards the  people  entertain  themselves  in 
a  thousand  ways,  according  to  inclination. 
Comparing  carefully  together,  to  learn  which 
is  worse,  our  old-fashioned  New  England  Sun- 
day, or  what  is  meant  by  a  Scotch  Sunday, 
with  the  more  loosely  observed  Sabbath  of  the 
Catholic  Church  —  and  it  might  be  difficult  to 
decide.  Both  are  bad,  neither  is  good  for 
religion  or  man.  Neither  answers  the  true 
end  of  the  day.  Better  than  either  is  the  lib- 
erally observed  Sabbath  of  the  present  day  in 
some  small  sections  of  tlie  country  among 
ourselves,  where  worship,  rest  from  labor, 
and  quiet  enjoyment  are  so  beautifully  inter- 
woven one  with  another ;  where  God  is 
worshipped,  no  man  is  compelled  to  work  ; 
and  both  religion  and  rest  made  attractive, 
by  some  quiet  relaxation,  some  innocent 
amusement.  Yet  one  cannot  but  think  this 
repetition  of  the  morning  worship  on  Snnday 


FESTA    DAYS. 


231 


in  the  afternoon  to  incur  the  censure  of  the 
proverb,  "  Ne  quid  nimis.'''' 

The  secular  festa  days  are  passed,  if  away 
from  home,  in  public  gardens,  or  walks,  or, 
strolling  among  the  byways  and  lanes  of 
the  neighborhood  of  cities  and  towns,  or,  in 
the  country,  by  rambling  among  the  woods, 
or  dancing  beneath  the  shade  of  trees ; 
and  partaking,  meanwhile,  of  the  simple  fare 
served  underneath  tents  or  on  small  tables, 
with  benches  set  around.  Nothing  could 
strike  one  more  agreeably  than  the  tempe- 
rance and  joviality  with  which  these  classes  ot 
people  enjoy  themselves  at  such  times,  their 
temperance  in  eating  as  well  as  in  drinking, 
and  the  keen  relish  with  which  they  engage 
in  games  and  dances.  The  food  on  such  oc- 
casions was  rarely  any  thing  more  than  bread, 
a  little  cold  meat  perhaps,  and  the  connnon 
cheap  wines  of  the  country,  but  generally  only 
bread  and  wine,  unless  it  were  in  the  season 
of  fruits  when  they  were  lavishly  dispensed. 
In  a  country  where  wine  flows  like  water, 
there  could  not  but  be  some  abuse  of  it.     But, 


232  TTIR     ITALIAN'S     OF     MIDnLE     ITAT-Y. 

thougli  I  was  present  on  many  such  occasions, 
I  never  saw  an  instance  of  intoxication,  or 
witnessed  any  of  the  noise,  fights,  or  broils, 
which  are  here  the  necessary  attendants  upon 
drink.  I  had,  what  I  considered  the  good  for- 
tune, to  pass  three  days  at  a  small  village 
named  Pelago,  on  the  road  to  Vallombrosa, 
wliere  a  fair  was  held,  and  where  I  enjoyed  an 
opportunity  to  observe  the  manners  and  habits 
of  the  country  people — twenty  miles  from 
I'Moronce.  There  were  three  or  four  thousand 
])eoplc  congregated  there,  buying,  selling,  eat- 
ing, and  drinking.  1  mingled  with  them 
freely  every  wliere,  in  their  pleasures,  their 
business,  and  their  worship  —  for  morning 
and  evening  the  various  chapels  were  crowd- 
ed, and  with  all  the  appearances  of  the  same 
earnest  devotion  so  observable  in  the  Catholic 
Church  on  the  Sabbath.  No  where  did  I 
meet  intoxication,  violence,  rudeness,  or  any 
conduct  that  could  give  offence  to  the  most 
fastidious.  Adjoining  my  room  at  the  inn 
was  a  hall,  where  there  were  seated  at  dinner 
a  great  number  of  the  country   people,  fathers, 


TEMPERANCE.  233 

mothers,  brothers  and  sisters,  friends  and 
acquaintance.  From  no  sound  which  I  heard 
from  that  company  could  I  have  supposed  that 
there  was  present  any  other  than  a  company 
of  refinement  and  cukivation.  There  was 
the  same  murmur  of  uninterrupted  conversa- 
tion, but  in  that  quiet,  subdued  tone,  which 
marks  the  intercourse  of  the  best  bred  people. 
No  noise  —  no  boisterous  mirth  —  no  riot  — 
yet  was  the  table  covered  with  wines,  and  all 
drank  to  their  heart's  content.  I  mention 
this  as  showing  two  things,  first,  a  great  na- 
tive refinement  and  propriety  in  the  character 
of  the  rustic  population,  and  secondly,  a  great 
power  of  self-control.  For,  though  wine  was 
as  water,  yet  there  was  no  excess.  We  could 
not  easily  believe  that  as  many  of  the  same 
classes  of  our  race,  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, could  sit  down  to  such  a  table,  in  any 
part  of  England,  or  any  part  of  our  country, 
and  the  same  virtues  of  temperance  and  self- 
government  be  exhibited  with  equal  grace. 
They  always  seem  to  me  to  be  a  race  of  much 

more  natural  delicacy  and  refinement  of  char- 
20* 


234  THF.     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

acter,  than  can  he  seen  any  where  among  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tribes.  What  a  pity  it  is  — 
how  mnch  to  be  lamented,  that  this  same 
Anglo-Saxon  character,  with  all  its  undoubted 
strength,  has  not  a  little  more  of  this  native 
gentleness  —  a  less  tendency  to  excesses  and 
violences  of  all  sorts. 

A  word  on  the  personal  appearance  of  the 
Italian.  I  do  not  think  that  beauty  in  Italy 
is  so  common  as  in  our  own  country,  but  it  is 
sometimes  of  a  higher  order.  I  have  never 
seen  so  fine  looking  men  as  I  chanced  to  see 
in  Rome.  There  is  an  air  of  command,  a  lofty 
port  and  bearing  in  the  Roman,  to  which  there 
is  nothing  like  in  any  other  people.  And  the 
expression  and  form  of  countenance  corres- 
ponds. The  features  are  finely  cast,  and  the 
complexion  just  dark  enough  to  consist  best 
with  manly  beauty.  The  Roman  nose  cannot 
but  add  dignity  to  a  countenance,  even  when 
the  other  features  are  lacking  in  beauty  and 
expression  ;  and  the  form  described  by  that 
name  is  almost  universal    in  Italy,  any  where 


BEAUTY.  '4,6b 

witliin  a  hundred  miles  of  the  capital.  I  was 
never  struck  with  it  till  I  had  reached  Sienna, 
forty  miles  from  Rome,  where  it  was  so  pre- 
dominant as  to  be  almost  ludicrous.  I  saw  it 
every  where.  I  looked  for  it  among  the 
country  men  and  country  women,  as  they 
came  to  market,  and  it  was  there.  Even  the 
boys  in  the  street,  playing  about,  rejoiced  in  a 
nose  worthy  of  Cincinnatus  or  Pompey.  It 
was  so  large  and  decided,  as  almost  to  make 
one  think  it  nmst  be  in  the  way.  Its  propor- 
tions did  not  enlarge  as  I  came  to  the  capital, 
but  they  did  not  abate  ;  and  on  the  full  grown 
man  it  is  certainly  a  grand  appendage  to  the 
countenance,  and  would  save  any  one  from 
contempt,  whatever  other  defect  he  might 
have.  I  never  saw  there  a  small  nose,  or 
what  could  be  described  as  one  that  fell  short 
of  its  just  length  ;  or,  as  is  so  common  in 
England  and  Scotland,  one  inclining  upward 
at  the  termination.  So  that,  on  the  whole, 
the  Roman  head  must  be  admitted  to  be  a 
finer  one  than  is  to  be  seen  out  of  Italy.  The 
eye  is  a  very  striking  feature,  —  very  dark  in 


236  THE    ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE    ITALY. 

tlie  iris,  and  its  setting  equally  so  ;  the  eye- 
brow heavy  and  black,  the  eyelids,  by  the 
length  of  the  lashes  and  their  color,  lending 
additional  power  to  that  feature. 

Of  the  female  form  and  countenance  I  had 
less  opportunity  to  judge.  AVhether  there  is 
less  beauty  or  more  in  Italy  than  here,  Avill 
depend  much  upon  the  definition  one  adopts 
of  what  we  mean  by  beauty ;  whether  it  is  a 
beauty  residing  more  in  pure  form  and  in 
intellectual  expression,  or  in  full  physical  de- 
velopment. Of  the  first,  there  is  more  here 
than  in  Italy ;  of  the  last,  there  is  more  in 
Italy  than  here.  A  painter,  who  should  desire 
a  model  of  the  female  form,  would  succeed 
ten  times  in  his  search-  for  a  fine  model  there 
for  once  here.  But  the  sculptor  would  succeed 
oftener  here  than  there.  There  is  a  thinness 
here,  an  absence  of  all  roundness  in  the  lines, 
fatal  to  the  beauty  for  which  he  seeks. 
Tlie  Italian  woman  has  a  beauty  of  a  more 
material  kind  —  the  beauty  of  complexion,  of 
full  muscular  development,  and  of  passion. 
The  American  woman  depends  upon  grace  of 


FEMALE    BEAUTY.  237 

classical  outline  in  the  form,  and  intellectual 
expression.  The  American  female  head  and 
form  is  the  head  and  form  of  a  Greek  statue. 
Take  the  form  of  a  celebrated  antique,  called 
Pudicitia,  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Vatican  at 
Rome,  and  one  would  be  struck  at  once  with 
its  resemblance  in  stature,  grace,  and  its  pure 
classic  profile,  to  the  beautiful  women  of  our 
own  country.  It  is  the  beauty  of  Greek  statu- 
ary. For  the  painter  there  is  almost  always 
too  much  angle  and  line.  But  it  would  not 
be  correct  to  say,  that  all  these  various  ele- 
ments never  meet  in  our  country  women. 
They  certainly  do ;  and,  in  that  case,  the 
result  is,  a  perfection  of  form,  expression, 
complexion,  grace,  not  found  so  often  per- 
haps elsewhere.  And  this  is  the  judgment, 
not  only  of  a  partial  countryman,  but  of  more 
dispassionate  critics. 

In  respect  to  the  costume  of  the  people,  one 
is  struck  in  the  cities  with  very  little  that  is 
peculiar.  Among  the  better  classes,  the  French 
fashions,  that  is  to  say,  our  own,  generally  pre- 


238  THE     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

vail.  A  lady's  millinery  in  Florence,  Rome, 
Paris,  New  York,  Boston,  will  scarcely  differ 
in  cost,  fashion,  material.  Now  and  then  a 
gentleman  will  be  seen  with  the  pointed 
Roman  hat  npon  jiis  head,  and  in  some  of  the 
smaller  cities,  with  a  peacock's  feather  stuck 
into  the  broad  polished  band,  and  waving 
backwards.  But  the  most  striking  dissimi- 
larity between  the  Italian  race  and  ours,  is 
undoubtedly  to  be  seen  in  the  usages  of  the 
people  in  respect  to  the  hair,  there  being 
scarce  an  individual  in  Florence,  or  any  other 
city  in  the  peninsula,  where  beard  and  mous- 
tache, one  or  the  other,  or  both,  are  not  seen 
to  flourish  with  extraordinary  luxuriance.  In 
this,  the  American  traveller  is  observed  to 
follow  the  custom  of  the  country  of  which 
he  becomes  a  temporary  resident.  Though 
an  inhabitant  there  but  for  a  few  months,  he 
undergoes  so  total  a  transformation  by  for- 
bearing the  use  of  the  scissors  and  razor,  that 
in  a  short  time  he  is  hardly  to  be  known  by 
his  most  familiar  acquaintance.  We  show 
ourselves   a    far    more    cosmopolitan    tribe    in 


COSTUME.  239 

these,  and  a  thousand  other  respects,  than  the 
English.  An  Englishman  will  rarely  adopt 
any  where  a  usage  which  is  not  one  of  some 
part  of  his  own  country.  That  another  people 
have  a  particular  custom,  is  with  him  a  suffi- 
cient reason  why  he  should  not  have  it.  He  is 
an  Englishman  ;  and  is  not  to  be  confounded 
needlessly  with  another  people.  National  pe- 
culiarities of  all  sorts  are  a  convenience.  It  is 
an  advantage  to  knoAV  a  people  by  their  dress 
and  other  habits,  as  well  as  by  their  physiog- 
nomy ;  and  he  is  positively  angry  when,  in  an 
Italian  city,  he  meets  a  gentleman  who,  out  of 
a  forest  of  beard  and  a  shrubbery  of  mous- 
tache, accosts  him  in  the  familiar  dialect  of 
London  and  Birmingham.  In  this  a  certain 
dignity  of  character  is  displayed,  that  cannot 
be  too  highly  commended. 

Among  the  females  in  the  rural  districts, 
and  among  those  who  occupy  the  middle 
ranks  and  those  who  stand  next  below  them, 
there  is  observed  a  profuse  display  of  com- 
monplace jewelry  ;  and,  a  few  other  slight 
differences,  as  in  the  strong  colors  and  strongly 


21U  THE    ITALIANS    UK    MIDULE     ITALY. 

contrasted  colors  wliicli  are  worn,  and  wliich 
produce  the  prettiest  efl'cct  imaginable  at  a 
distance.  By  the  time  you  reach  Rome,  and 
still  more  Naples,  a  great  variety  of  singular 
costume  makes  its  appearance,  in  the  villages, 
by  the  road-side,  and  iu  the  fields  ;  which  you 
will  have  observed  in  any  of  the  pictures  of 
the  scenery  of  the  South  of  Italy.  A  Roman 
woman  of  the  country  with  her  brilliant  colors 
and  her  peculiar  head-dress,  M'hich  is  simply  a 
fold  or  two  of  thick  cloth  covering  the  top  of 
tiie  head,  and  falling  down  s<piare  behind  as 
low  as  the  shoulders,  is  a  most  attractive 
object ;  especially  if  she  is  at  the  same  time 
leading  along  a  jackass,  the  most  picturesque 
of  animals,  all  loaded  down,  the  woman  and 
ass,  with  grapes  for  market.  That  pretty  head- 
dress is  not  to  be  seen  in  Tuscany  ;  but  in- 
stead, the  coarse  Tuscan  straw,  in  immense 
tiats,  which  quite  envelope  the  face,  and 
almost  the  form,  and  is  any  thing  but  becom- 
ing. They  serve  for  concealment,  like  the 
hood  of  a  monk  ;  but  produce  not  the  same 
effect  of  mystery  as  that. 


MORAL    CHAKACTEK.  241 

The  Italians  are  not  reputed  a  strictly- 
honest  people.  We  are  told,  that  in  business 
transactions  they  will  deceive  ;  that  the  dealer 
may,  as  a  rule,  be  believed  to  have  first  asked 
double  the  price  which  he  is  willing  to  take 
if  offered.  That  all  sorts  of  owners  and 
drivers  of  all  sorts  of  carriages  for  the  accom- 
modation of  travellers,  are  untrustworthy. 
That  there  is  a  measure  of  truth  in  all  such 
statements,  cannot  be  denied,  but  then  it  is 
to  be  remembered,  first,  that  these  statements 
are  not  applicable  to  the  character  of  the  body 
of  the  people,  in  town,  much  less  in  the 
country,  but  only  to  the  classes  immediately 
concerned,  whose  whole  lives  are  passed  at 
the  doors  of  stables,  or  in  driving  bargains 
with  foreigners,  who  as  often  make  it  a  point 
to  get  things  for  too  little,  as  the  others  to  ask 
too  much  ;  and  secondly,  that  the  charge  conies 
from  the  English  traveller,  who  has  faith  in 
no  character  but  his  own.  The  strongly 
colored  statements  adverse  to  the  Italian 
character,  are   to   be  found  in  all,  I  believe, 

of  the  English  guide  books,  but,  indorsed  by 
21 


242  THK    ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE    ITALY. 

few  American  travellers  whom  I  have  met  with, 
but  on  the  other  hand  opinions  of  an  entirely 
opposite  character  freely  expressed.  My  own 
experience,  with  one  or  two  trivial  exceptions, 
was  altogether  in  favor,  not  only  of  the  ex- 
treme amiableness  of  the  people,  but  of  their 
justice,  fairness,  honesty.  If  there  are  oc- 
casional instances  of  over-charging,  and  all 
that,  among  drivers  and  traders,  where  in  the 
world  will  they  not  be  found,  certainly  m 
London,  Paris,  New  York,  Boston.  The  great 
complainers,  the  English,  are,  commonly, 
themselves,  an  honest  people  ;  but  as  if  there 
were  no  rogues  in  England !  and  as  if  an 
Italian  traveller  in  England,  ignorant  of  the 
English  language,  could  pass  through  London 
and  England  without  having  a  taste  of  Eng- 
lish sleight  of  hand  ! 

We  have  received  another  impression  of 
the  Italian  character,  that  it  is  one  of  passion 
and  vindictiveness — that  life  is  less  secure 
there,  both  to  the  native  and  to  foreigners, 
than  elsewhere.     They  are  a  people  of  passion 


MORAL    CHARACTF.K. 


243 


nndoiibtedly  ;  and  when  excited  by  a  great 
cause,  are  dangerous.  But  they  are  not  mo- 
rose, or  ill  tempered,  nor  disposed  to  violence, 
but  the  contrary.  And  the  greater  crimes,  as 
murder,  manslaughter,  homicide,  are  the  effects 
of  extreme  provocation,  —  rarely  for  money, 
as  with  the  English  and  with  us.  Such 
crimes,  with  money  in  some  way  or  other  at 
the  root  of  the  evil,  are  more  common  in 
England  and  here,  than  in  Italy,  with  passion 
and  revenge  as  the  moving  cause.  And  it 
would  naturally  be  the  case,  as  the  love  of 
money  is  the  most  universal  passion  of  our 
nature,  and  reigns  more  predominant  in  Eng- 
lish character  than  elsewhere.*  We  are  bound 
to  receive  with  the  greatest  caution  all  repre- 
sentations of  national  character  originating  in 
English  literature,  whence  we,  as  much  as  the 
English  themselves,  have  received  all  our  im- 
pressions of  the  continental  character.  The 
self-love   of  the  English  is  so    extraordinary, 


*  In  Eustace,  who  to  be  sure  was  a  Catholic,  but  then  an  Eng- 
lishman also,  there  is  a  very  fair  defence  of  the  Italian  character 
ai^ainst  the  usual  extreme  statements  of  the  English  press. 


211  THF,     TTALIAXS    OF    MIDDLE    ITALY. 

that  they  can  scarce  present  the  case,  of  the 
character  and  manners  of  a  foreign  people, 
with  justice.  They  not  only  love  themselves 
inordinately,  but,  which  is  worse,  they  cannot 
like  any  others.  Their  books  of  travels,  and 
their  reviews,  on  such  subjects,  may  be  read 
for  amusement,  but  not  for  reliable  informa- 
tion, when  they  touch  or  even  graze  upon 
the  character  of  another  people.  Who  can.  or 
ought,  to  trust  the  Englishman's  sketches  of 
the  French  character  ]  Who  would  dare  to 
trust  an  English  history  of  Prance  ?  Suppose 
the  continent  of  Iv.irope  were  to  take  their 
impressions  of  American  character,  and  facts 
of  history,  from  England,  either  from  the 
common  run  of  her  travellers,  her  magazines, 
or  even  from  the  first  authorities  in  the  Island, 
the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Review,  could 
we  consider  ourselves  as  fairly  represented  ? 
From  such  quarters  alone,  could  the  continent 
ever  learn  the  truth  about  us  ?  Take  the 
whole  of  English  literature  in  its  representa- 
tions of  America  —  the  literature  of  the  news- 
papers,   reviews,    travels,    and    the    like,    till 


MANNER    OF    PASSING    THE    DAY.  245 

witliin  tliese  few  years  past,  and  it  is  a  lit- 
erature destitute  of  candor  and  truth  —  it  is  a 
literature  of  studied  misrepresentations  and 
perverted  facts  —  of  heartless  and  gross  cari- 
cature. The  magazine  literature  of  England, 
more  than  acts  of  Parliament  or  policies  of 
ministries,  has  alienated  and  embittered  Amer- 
ica—  trivial  as  the  cause  may  seem  — just  as 
an  impertinent  fellow  treading  on  one's  toe 
excites  more  indignation  than  if  you  were 
knocked  down  by  an  Athlete. 

The  Italians,  like  all  who  dwell  in  warmer 
climates,  pass  the  day  a  little  differently  from 
ourselves.  They  rise  earlier,  those  who  work 
at  all,  rest  longer  at  noon,  and  work  to  about 
the  same  hour  at  night.  Dinner  is  every 
where,  even  in  cities,  with  few  exceptions, 
at  the  same  rational  hour,  twelve  o'clock,  — 
or,  from  that  to  one.  At  fashionable  hotels, 
where  foreigners  most  do  congregate,  the 
hour  was  from  four  to  six.  Fashion  breal's 
down  all  national  distinctions  —  runs  all  in 
one  mould.      All  differences  in  manners  and 

21* 


216  THE     ITALIANS    OF    MIDDLE     ITALY. 

costume  will  eventually  disappear,  through 
fashion  and  railroads  together.  Breakfasts  are 
brief  and  simple  ;  a  cup  of  coffee,  with  bread 
dipped  into  it,  is  the  standing  breakfast  of  all 
the  classes  who  frequent  the  cafes.  Not  one 
in  an  hundred  uses  butter.  The  common 
people,  laborers,  &c.  breakfast,  dine  and  sup  on 
bread  and  wine,  with  a  little  cold  meat,  or 
fish,  as  the  extreme  indulgence.  Their  habits 
are  extremely  simple  and  wholesome  in  what 
they  eat.  Luxuries,  such  as  cakes,  pies,  and 
sweet  things,  are  for  ns  Americans,  who  on 
all  extra  occasions,  at  home  and  abroad,  will 
do  any  thing  rather  than  partake  of  a  whole- 
some article  of  food.  If  they  can  contrive  to 
poison  themselves  on  some  half-baked  pie,  or 
cake,  of  which  potash  forms  the  principal  part, 
they  account  themselves  supremely  happy  — 
and  perhaps  wash  it  all  down  with  coffee,  of 
which  a  decoction  of  charcoal  would  possess 
the  same  value  and  flavor.  These  kinds  of 
refreshment  are  particularly  to  be  noticed  at 
railroad  stations.* 


*  Bread  and  Imlter,  cold  moats,  or  tolerable  coffee,  are  nowhere 
to  be  met  with  wiiliin  llie  Stales  al  such  places. 


DINNER.  247 

I  was  fortunate  iu  Florence  for  several 
months,  in  dining  at  the  table  of  a  yonng 
physician,  where  I  could  observe  and  experi- 
ence the  manners  of  the  respectable  classes. 
More  trouble  was  incurred  at  any  one  such 
dinner,  than  at  any  three  of  ours.  Four,  five, 
six  courses,  constituted  the  daily  fare.  First 
a  soup,  universal  throughout  Europe  —  then 
the  meat  of  which  the  soup  had  been  made, 
as  a  separate  dish,  with  radishes  or  salad  — 
then  a  course  of  vegetables,  potatoes  prepared 
in  diverse  ways,  beans  or  asparagus,  and  to- 
matos,  accompanied  always  by  bread  and 
wine  —  then  a  dish  of  broiled  meat — then  a 
roast  chicken  or  pigeon,  with  fried  squash 
blossoms,  perhaps  —  then  sweet  preparations, 
then  nuts,  fresh  figs  and  grapes.  For  each  of 
these  courses,  plates,  &c.  were  scrupulously 
changed,  and  other  forms  observed.  Such  a 
dinner,  though  but  three  persons,  could  not 
but  consume  a  good  deal  of  time,  if  not  much 
food  —  for  though  there  were  many  things, 
they  were  all  small  —  yet  still  enough  —  but 
the  whole  together,  vegetables  and  all,  would 


248  THE    ITALIANS    OF     MIDDLE     ITALY. 

not  weigh  more  than  a  small  joint    of  mut- 
ton. 

Ill  all  that  I  have  now  said  of  some  of  the 
national  characteristics  of  the  Italians  —  or 
rather  of  the  Tuscans  and  Romans,  and  of 
other  national  differences  in  respect  to  their 
hahits,  manners  and  morals,  I  speak  under 
correction.  It  is  not  very  easy  to  describe  the 
moral  and  other  traits  of  a  people,  without 
long  and  great  intimacy, — especially,  study- 
ing them  through  the  dark  glass  of  a  foreign 
language,  —  without  an  exposure  to  the  com- 
mission of  many  errors.  To  speak  of  things, 
only  —  as  of  scenery,  arts,  and  antiquities  — 
the  task  is  lighter  and  safer.  But  to  under- 
take to  draw  the  character  of  a  living  people, 
is  a  work  of  much  more  difficulty  and  deli- 
cacy, involving  much  higher  qualifications  ; 
for  which,  without  any  affectation,  almost  any 
one  may  consider  himself  as  only  very  im- 
perfectly fitted  ;  and,  for  his  iniintentional, 
unavoidable  misstatements,  may  ask  to  be 
pardoned,   without  shame. 


LONDON. 


LONDON. 


The  American  traveller  who  visits  Europe, 
looks  forward  to  no  spot  with  deeper  interest, 
with  expectations  more  highly  raised,  than  to 
London.  If  to  any  other  with  superior  inter- 
est, on  the  part  of  some,  it  would  only  be  to 
Rome.  Those  are  the  two  great  capitals  of 
the  earth, — Rome,  London.  Whether  the 
traveller  be  a  man  of  books  or  business,  those 
are  the  two  centres  about  which  his  thoughts 
will  chiefly  revolve.  The  man  of  ancient 
literature  and  recollections,  as  he  draws  near 
to  Rome,  forgets  even  his  existence,  and  re- 
members only  the  past.  The  traveller  of 
business  or  pleasure  tires  of  Rome  in  about  a 


252  LONDON. 

week  ;  but  in  London,  and  in  a  still  greater 
degree  in  Paris,  all  his  luxurious  tastes  are  so 
highly  fed,  that  he  finds  himself  in  Elysium. 
It  is  the  land  of  money  and  trade,  if  it  is  the 
land  of  good  dinners,  turtle  soup,  champagne, 
and  old  wines  ;  and  his  soul  is  satisfied  and 
filled.  But,  setting  aside  extreme  cases,  every 
American  greets  with  affectionate  salutations 
the  white  cliifs  of  Albion,  and  anticipates  a 
world  of  enjoyment  from  visiting  the  places 
made  sacred  to  his  mind  by  the  great  names 
of  her  history  and  her  literature  ;  and  London, 
as  the  grand  central  point  of  all  such  interest, 
he  bids  all  hail  !  with  peculiar  satisfaction. 

But  when,  from  this  state  of  exaltation,  he 
passes  from  his  ship  and  finds  himself  within 
the  walls  of  the  boundless  capital,  he  experi- 
ences a  sort  of  material  pressure  upon  him, 
bearing  down  with  mountain  weight,  for  which 
at  first  he  finds  it  difiicult  to  account.  On  a 
little  reflection,  he  concludes  it  to  be  nothing 
else  than  the  presence  of  this  immeasurable 
city,  this  huge  magnitude,  which  drives  every 
other  feeling  out  of  the  mind  but  the  sense  of 


MAGNITUDE    ITS    CHARACTERISTIC. 


o^:^ 


this  vastness  itself.     There  is  no  room  for  any 
thing  else. 

Magnitude  is  the  distinguishing  characteris- 
tic of  London,  as  grandeur  of  natural  position 
and  scenery  is  that  of  Naples  —  beauty,  that 
of  Florence  —  moral  interest  that  of  Rome  — 
shops,  plate  glass,  splendor,  that  of  Paris.  But 
in  no  other  city  does  the  peculiar  character- 
istic of  a  place  so  force  itself  upon  one's  notice 
as  in  London.  There  you  are  remiuded  of 
magnitude  whichever  way  you  turn.  You 
become  presently  insensible  to  the  beauty  of 
Florence,  to  the  shops  of  Paris,  to  the  moral 
glory  of  Rome,  but  you  never  forget  for  one 
single  moment  how  big  London  is,  how  mul- 
titudinous its  population.  When  you  find, 
after  spending  your  first  week,  or  more  than 
that,  in  doing  nothing  else  than  scouring  the 
capital  from  end  to  end,  in  order  to  catch  some 
general  notion  of  the  place,  that  you  are  as 
much  a  stranger  as  when  you  began  your 
travels,  —  that  though  you  have  gone  so  far, 
you  have    made    no   progress,  —  though  you 

have  seen  so  much,  you  know  and  can  remem- 
23 


254  LONDON. 

bcr  nothing,  —  that  the  city  is  still  as  new  and 
unsoiled  as  ever,  —  you  receive  a  very  lively 
and  even  painful  impression  of  its  enormous 
size. 

Every  thing  else  is  subordinate  to  size. 
Churches  are  nothing.  You  pass  St.  Paul's, 
and  give  it  only  a  careless  look.  Columns 
and  statues,  Nelson's  and  the  Duke  of  York's 
pillar,  even  Punch's  Duke  you  overlook. 
Magnitude  alone  interests.  This  not  only 
interests,  it  astonishes,  absorbs,  appals  you  ; 
annihilates  every  other  feeling.  Queen,  Lords 
and  Conmions,  are  nothing  by  the  side  of  this 
immeasurable  vastness.  As  a  stranger  this  is 
the  first  topic  of  conversation,  and  its  interest 
never  flags.  Yet  it  is  not  you,  after  all,  who 
are  so  much  interested  by  this  size,  as  the 
Londoner  himself,  who  is  proud  of  it,  and 
forces  the  subject  ujion  you.  Ilis  topics  are 
not  of  art,  pictures  and  statues,  books,  litera- 
ture, they  are  not  so  much  to  his  taste ;  but 
of  London,  its  streets,  squares,  and  parks  ;  its 
extent,  the  masses  always  abroad,  the  crowds 
in  the  streets  —  the  number  of  miles  across  it, 


WEALTH   IX  THE   GREAT  MIDDLE   CLASS.     255 

the  number  of  miles  around  it,  its  growth, 
even  at  present,  like  that  of  New  Orleans  or 
San  Francisco  ;  the  countless  omnibuses,  the 
packing  and  tangling  of  carriages  and  other 
vehicles,  fifty  times  a  day,  where  Great  Far- 
rington  Street  crosses  over  to  Black  friar's 
Bridge,  and  the  admirable  police  for  keeping 
all  these  masses  in  order.  In  the  presence  of 
London,  it  is  just  as  it  would  be  if  you  should 
meet  a  man  fifty  feet  high,  and  of  a  weight 
proportionable.  You  would  be  in  a  state  of  per- 
petual astonishment.  You  feel,  moreover,  as 
if  your  individuality  were  swallowed  up,  lost, 
in  the  enormous  mass ;  as,  in  the  system  of 
the  Pantheist,  souls  are  in  the  divine  sub- 
stance. 

I  think  that  the  impression  made  by  magni- 
tude, which  is  first  and  deepest,  is  next  suc- 
ceeded by  a  part  of  the  same  general  feeling, 
the  impression  made  by  wealth — by  the  signs 
of  wealth  of  the  great  middle  classes.  This 
impression  is  not  less  distinct,  nor  hardly  less 
overwhelming,  than  that  made  by  size.  In 
other  capitals,  your  admiration  is  directed  to 


250  LONDOX. 

the  palaces  of  some  of  the  nobility,  one  here, 
and  another  there  ;  sometimes  to  the  houses 
of  a  few  of  the  great  commoners  ;  sometimes 
to  a  street  of  palaces,  as  in  Genoa.  But  in 
London  you  note  these  signs  of  wealth,  not 
only  here  and  tliere,  but  really  every  where  — 
not  only  in  this  street  and  another,  but  in 
street  after  street  beyond  counting,  and  then 
in  square  after  square  beyond  counting.  And 
in  certain  parts  of  the  city,  the  population 
seems  wholly  composed  of  those  who  dwell 
in  palaces.  The  rest  of  mankind  have  no 
place  provided  for  them.  And  one  begins  to 
feel  as  if  that  were,  there  at  least,  the  natural 
state  of  man,  and  as  if  he  himself,  when  he 
returns  home,  will  find  himself  lodged  in  the 
same  way ;  that  you  feel  particularly  in  the 
purlieus  of  Eaton  and  Belgrade  Squares,  and 
any  where,  in  short,  at  the  West  End. 

This  has  the  finest  feature  of  grandeur 
about  it  imaginable  —  this  indefinite  multi- 
plication of  splendid  residences.  There  is 
nothing  like  it,  nothing  that  approaches  it, 
elsewhere.    It  makes  a  deeper  impression  than 


WEALTH   IN  THE   GREAT  MIDDLE   CLASS.     257 

either  the  shops  of  Regent  Street  and  Picca- 
dilly, the  Warehonses  on  the  Docks,  the  Beer 
Breweries,  or  the  Shipping  on  the  Thames  ; 
and  comparisons  with  other  cities  in  these 
respects  are  not  to  be  thought  of.  In  this 
aspect  of  the  comfort  and  wealth  among  the 
great  middle  classes,  it  carries  with  it,  too,  a 
grand  interpretation.  Where  nobility,  an  idle, 
selfish,  luxurious,  vicious  nobility  once  alone 
dwelt  in  that  magnificence,  now  inhabit  the 
self-raised,  self-enriched,  merchant  nobility  of 
England.  Commerce  and  industry  have  ele- 
vated them  to  a  position  of  both  wealth  and 
power,  equal  to  that  other  inherited  from  an- 
cestors who  had  inherited  theirs,  who  had 
inherited  theirs,  and  so  on  backwards  indefi- 
nitely. Such  are  the  dwellings  of  these 
innumerable  Squares.  And  among  them,  but 
not  particularly  distinguished  in  any  way  as 
more  magnificent  than  the  rest,  are  the  winter 
residences  of  the  great  lords  and  barons  of 
the  empire.  In  this  part  of  London  will  be 
found  the  residences  of  the  Foreign  Ministers, 

from  the  Ambassador  of  all  the  Russias,  down, 
2-3* 


2oS  T-oNnox, 

or  lip,  to   the    American    Minister  of  all   the 
States. 

Another  similar  feature  of  London,  similar  for 
magnificence,  for  vastness,  for  an  indescriba- 
ble nobleness,  is  its  Parks.  They  are  in  no 
proper  sense  of  the  word  however  parks,  unless 
you  mean  deer  parks.  They  certainly  are 
rather  vast  landed  estates,  farms,  sites  for  towns 
and  cities.  It  is  a  misnomer  to  speak  of  a  city 
park  which  you  can  neither  see  across,  nor 
travel  round,  in  the  midst  of  which,  in  an 
English  atmosphere,  you  may  easily  lose  your 
way,  and  may  be  as  easily  robbed  and  mur- 
dered —  so  far  as  society  could  know  any 
thing  about  it — as  in  the  midst  of  Hounslow 
Heath,  or  the  Arabian  Sahara.  They  are  the 
country  rather  than  parks  ;  a  portion  of  the 
country  fenced  in,  Mnth  houses  just  visible  in 
the  distance.  There,  where  the  whole  island 
is  hardly  bigger  than  some  of  our  States, 
these  parks  are  several  of  them  four  hundred 
acres  each.  Here,  where  in  our  American 
cities,  territory  is  a  mere  drug,  cheap  and 
illimitable,  the  largest  of  our  parks  or  squares 


PARKS.  259 

hardly  reaches  forty  acres.  I  suppose,  on  the 
principle  that  what  is  common,  cheap,  plenty, 
is  to  be  despised.  But  these  English  grounds, 
though  too  large  for  comfort,  use,  beauty,  or 
safety,  have  the  single  merit  of  consistency  ; 
they  are  in  due  proportion  to  all  the  rest  of 
London  and  the  character  of  the  people. 

St.  James's  Park  is  the  true  size  for  every 
object  for  which  a  park  should  exist  at  all, 
large  enough  for  beauty,  air,  health,  exercise. 
Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  elegant  in  its 
design,  more  complete  in  its  plan  and  orna- 
ment. It  may  be  considered  a  model  for  all 
the  world  of  landscape  gardening,  and  for 
all  city  parks ;  any  deviation  from  which 
must  be  so  far  into  error.  It  is  a  gem  of 
beauty  and  elegance,  and  is,  one  cannot  but 
think,  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  cultivated 
ground  in  the  world. 

So  different  in  its  graceful  curves  from  all 
oil)'  rectilinear  plantings,  and  in  its  charming 
variegated  shrubberies  from  our  unending 
monotonous  elms.  I  would  not  decry  the 
elm.     I  saw  no  oak  or  elm  in  England,  that 


260  LONDON. 

could  compare  for  grandeur  with  our  elms, 
especially  of  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut. 
But  we  must  beware  of  the  proverb,  "  Too 
much  of  a  good  thing,  &c."  The  elm  is  a  good 
tree  ;  but  the  elm  is  not  every  thing.  St.  James's 
Park  combines  the  beauty  of  the  conservatory 
with  the  grandeur  of  forest  planting.  Here 
trees  in  groups,  or,  if  large,  insulated  ;  there,  a 
dense  parterre  of  shrubs  and  flowers  ;  then, 
in  addition,  sheets  of  water  with  their  ap- 
propriate inhabitants.  Our  Boston  Common, 
which,  with  a  moderate  outlay  of  taste  and 
sense,  might,  with  its  naturally  varied  surface, 
have  been  made  as  beautiful  as  the  Park  of  St. 
James,  is  now,  one  must  suppose,  —  though 
still  not  loo  late  for  some  change  for  the 
better,  —  condemned  for  all  time  to  these  geo- 
metrical lines  of  elms  and  maples,  as  if  there 
were  in  nature  neither  such  things  as  shrubs, 
flowers,  or  curved  lines.  Our  American  idea 
of  a  city  park  or  square  seems  to  be  —  it 
is  the  same  thing  in  all  our  cities  —  rows 
of  forest  trees,  with  straight  j)aths  between, 
which  will  conduct  the  business  man   by  the 


OLD     STREETS    AND    SCtTTARES.  261 

shortest  cut  possible  to  his  shop  or  his  count- 
ing room,  allowing  never  the  sacrifice  of  a 
foot  or  inch  to  taste,  the  love  of  beauty,  or  the 
enjoyment  of  a  walk.  With  the  single  ex- 
ception of  the  Common  in  Boston,  no  other 
park  or  square  in  the  country  exceeds  in  extent 
some  ten  or  fifteen  acres.  And,  though  so 
small,  yet  well  laid  out,  it  were  in  most  cases 
enough — better  at  least,  and  less  of  a  nui- 
sance —  for  that  they  are  with  their  vast 
extent  —  than    Hyde,    Regent's,    or  Victoria. 

There  is  a  great  charm  to  the  American 
who  has  been  reared  in  a  love  of  English  let- 
ters, about  the  very  names  of  the  squares  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  at  least  Hyde  Park  and 
St.  James's  ;  and  not  less  in  the  names  of  cer- 
tain streets,  as  they  for  the  first  time  catch  the 
eye  on  the  corners.  Names  of  squares  that 
once  figured  so  largely  in  the  world  of  fashion 
and  politics,  in  the  writings  of  Richardson, 
Miss^Burney  and  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  a  thou- 
sand others,  such  as  Portman  Square,  Fins- 
bury  and   Russell   Squares,   Bloomsbury   and 


202  LONDON- 

Grosvenor,  Soho,  Portland  Place  ;  then  streets. 
which  for  familiarity,  are,  even  to  an  Ameri- 
can, as  household  words,  the  Strand,  Fleet 
Street,  Cheapside,  Cornhill,  Pall  Mall,  Picca- 
dilly, St.  PanTs  Church  Yard,  Pater  Noster 
Row,  Grub  Street,  even  the  Old  Bailey  and 
Newgate,  and  others  without  end  —  such 
names  thrill  you  with  pleasure  as  you  encoun- 
ter them.  With  what  greater  interest  still 
does  one  hunt  for,  and  then  read  the  name  on 
a  corner  in  the  Strand,  of  Bolt  Court,  where 
Johnson  long  resided  with  his  hospital  of  quar- 
relsome and  incurable  old  women  up  stairs, 
Mrs  Williams,  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  together  with 
his  man  Francis  and  the  foolish  Boswell.  And 
what  a  greater  pleasure  was  it,  in  this  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  to  dine  and 
take  tea  beneath  the  very  roof  of  the  kind- 
hearted  old  man  —  now  covering  a  common 
eating-house  —  if  perchance  my  information 
was  correct.  Then  what  a  greater  pleasure 
still,  to  puzzle  out  in  the  obscurest  part  of 
liOiidoi),  Fiasl-Cheap,  and  take  one's  dinner 
Willi   a   pint,   not  of   sherris-sack  —  for    that 


OLD  STREETS  AND  SQUARES 


263 


would  not  do  in  these  temperance  days  —  bat 
of  the  very  thinnest  ale,  in  order  to  keep  some 
likeness  to  the  classical  heroes  of  a  stage 
greater  than  Greek  or  Roman  ever  dreamed 
of.  Then  to  make  the  discovery  of  Charles 
Lamb's  quarters  in  the  old  East  India  House, 
and  follow  him  to  Christ  Hospital,  where,  as 
a  boy,  rigged  out  in  what  resembled  very 
much  our  old  continental  uniform,  he  learned 
the  languages  and  laid  up  the  germs  of  those 
quaint  images  and  turns  of  expression,  which 
have  imparted  such  a  charm  to  the  most  agree- 
able essays  in  the  language.  Then,  once 
more,  to  visit  the  Inns  of  Court,  the  Temple, 
the  Inner  Temple,  the  Middle  Temple,  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  Gray's  Inn,  of  which  we  have 
read  and  heard  so  many  times,  and  for  the 
first  time  to  see  the  learned  Judges  in  their 
gowns  and  bag-wigs,  and  the  Counsellors  in 
their  gowns  and  wigs.  All  this  could  not  but 
impart  more  than  a  mere  childish  delight  to 
any  one  who  had  become  at  all  familiar  with 
the  names  of  these  places  and  dignitaries,  in 
the   histories,  fictions,  poetry  and  prose  of  the 


"201  LONDON. 

richest  literature  of  either  ancient  or  modern 
times. 

But  it  would  never  do  to  attempt  to  describe 
London  in  any  detail.  There  is  but  little  in 
it,  moreover,  that  would  bear  hearing  de- 
scribed, after  one  has  obtained  a  general  idea 
of  the  city  as  a  whole.  It  is  surprising  what 
a  feeling  of  indifference  about  individual  ob- 
jects of  curiosity  you  experience  there.  With 
most  other  cities  it  is  the  parts,  the  particular 
objects,  which  excite  the  chief  interest  ;  ruins, 
churches,  palaces,  museums,  galleries,  and  the 
like.  In  London  all  such  things  become  sub- 
ordinate. In  London  you  are  satisfied  with 
London.  You  care  little  about  St.  Paul's, 
Westminster  Abbey,  the  Parliament  Houses, 
or  any  other  fragment  of  the  great  whole. 
You  would  rather  walk  up  and  down  Picca- 
dilly or  Regent  Street  and  see  the  life  there, 
than  get  by  heart  the  whole  of  the  British 
Museum.  You  prefer  the  crowds  in  Fleet 
Street  and  the  Strand,  to  seeing  the  Tower, 
the  Crown  jewels,  the  Knights  on  horseback, 
and  the  Stairs  down  which  Lady  Jane  Gray 


THE    STREETS.  2G5 

went  to  execution.  The  very  thing  is  the 
crowd,  the  jam,  the  melee  —  to  miss  that 
would  be  the  great  loss.  The  multitudes 
abroad  are  a  better  comedy  or  tragedy,  accord- 
ing to  the  frame  of  mind  of  the  observer, 
or  the  street  he  may  happen  to  be  in,  whether 
Regent  Street,  or  Wapping,  or  Rag  Fair,  than 
any  he  will  be  likely  to  witness  at  the  Adelphi, 
or  the  Haymarket,  Drury  Lane,  or  Covent 
Garden.  And  the  heavy  rumble  of  innumer- 
able vehicles  along  innumerable  streets,  gives 
out  a  grander  sound  than  the  music  of  Exeter 
Hall  or  the  Opera  House.  These  are  the  ob- 
jects, the  sights  and  sounds,  which  excite, 
engross,  astonish  you  in  London.  You  are 
witnessing  a  flow  of  human  life  which  there 
is  nothing  resembling  any  where  else,  and 
which  is  a  greater  thing  to  witness  than  all 
objects  of  still  life  whatsoever.  It  is  not  a 
stream  or  flow  of  life  as  we  use  these  figures, 
but  a  torrent  roaring  along  with  all  the  tumult 
and  rage  of  Niagara. 

I,  of  course,  was  like  every  body  else  there. 

I  was  caught  up  by  the  spirit  and  genius  of  the 
23 


206  LONDON. 

place,  and  left  it  very  ignorant  of  every  thing 
else  save  this  rush  and  turmoil  of  life.  I  once 
entered  St.  Paul's  and  examined  it,  but  it 
creates  little  sensation  in  any  one  who  has 
seen  St.  Peter's.  I  worshipped  once,  or  rather 
was  present,  at  the  service  of  the  Temple 
Churcli,  the  nicest  church,  as  the  English  say, 
in  all  England,  where  the  English  liturgy  is 
carried  on  throughout  by  chanting.  I  peram- 
bulated and  studied  Westminster  Abbey.  With 
the  monuments  I  had  always  felt  interested.  I 
wanted  to  see  the  very  marble  where  was  writ- 
ten "  O  Rare  Ben  Jonson,"  and  a  few  others, 
and  I  saw  them.  But  the  vast  proportion  of 
the  names  and  monuments  were  so  few  out  of 
the  whole  to  confer  any  special  gratification, 
that  one  could  only  feel,  on  the  whole,  a  deep 
disappointment.  Perhaps  it  was  the  republi- 
can taint  that  spoiled  the  visit.  At  any  rate, 
I  could  feel  no  pride  or  pleasure  in  reading  the 
names  of  lords  and  ladies,  without  number, 
who  had  been  remarkable  only  for  having 
once  been  lords  and  ladies.  It  was  hard  work 
to  find  inonnnients  to  the  man  of  mere  science 


WESTMINSTER    ARBEY.  267 

or  genius,  discoverers,  inventors,  chemists, 
physicians,  or  lawyers,  unless  they  had  risen 
to  be  Lord  Chancellors ;  they  were  superseded 
and  excluded  by  generals  and  admirals,  post- 
captains  in  the  army  and  navy,  and  by  hosts 
of  Lady  Betties  and  Dame  Maries,  of  every 
rank  and  degree  of  nobility,  from  the  oldest 
duke  in  blood  down  to  the  youngest  son  of 
the  youngest  baronet.  Some  of  the  more 
famous  poets  were  there,  but  not  many.  And 
in  the  far-famed  Poets'  Corner  the  names  are 
counted  in  a  breath,  while  you  would  easily 
lose  your  breath  in  counting  over  the  titled 
unknown.  In  truth,  one  could  only  be  of- 
fended by  the  pertinacity  with  which  the 
honors  of  rank  are  observed  down  to  the  bor- 
ders of  the  grave.  More  so,  I  apprehend,  than 
even  at  Almack's.  It  w^as  a  De  Brett's  peerage 
of  the  dead.  It  is,  every  one  knows,  the 
grand  idolatry  in  England.  Rank  riots  there, 
even  among  shoe-blacks  and  draymen.  There 
is  no  other  worship  there  like  that.  De  Brett's 
is  the  only  book,  which,  if  books  should  re- 
appear on  the  other  side  of  the  grave,  there 


268  LONDON*. 

Avonld  Ijc  a  common  feeling  about  having 
republished.  For  the  monuments  themselves, 
there  was  little  worthy  of  notice.  Mrs.  Night- 
ingale's is  still  the  most  famous,  and,  really, 
perhaps,  the  best  there.  They  are  not  for  one 
moment  to  be  compared,  in  this  respect,  with 
those  of  Santa  Croce,  at  Florence.  Indeed, 
every  where  monumental  sculpture  seems  to 
be  conspicuous  chiefly  for  failures.  The  Ro- 
mans only  had  genius  that  way.  The  monu- 
ment of  Adrian  must  have  been  among  tombs, 
what  St.  Peter's  has  been,  and  is,  among 
churches. 

Indeed,  none  of  the  fine  arts  can  be  said  to 
have  their  home  in  London  or  England.  Many 
reputable  artists  have  arisen  there  since  the  mid- 
dle of  the  last  century.  But  still,  remembering 
the  length  of  her  history  and  her  advances  in 
literature  and  wealth,  and  other  signs  of  high 
civilization,  these  arts  cannot  be  thought 
to  have  made  proportional  progress,  nor  even 
at  present  to  stand  on  very  high  ground,  ex- 
cept in  respect,  perhaps,  to  the  number  of  their 
votaries.     Their  "eneral  condition  in  London 


FINE    ARTS.  269 

is  to  be  known  best  by  attendance  npon  the 
annual  exliibitions  in  the  spring.  But  some  of 
the  best  artists  are  jiernianently  represented  in 
some  of  their  best  works  in  the  Vernon  Gal- 
lery, a  department  of  the  National  Gallery. 
Judging  from  the  works  exhibited  there,  how- 
ever, a  foreigner  would  not  draw  very  favor- 
able conclusions,  in  regard,  at  least,  to  the  art 
of  painting.  Paintings,  in  fact,  are  alone  ex- 
hibited in  that  establishment. 

The  distinguishing  characteristics  of  the 
English  school  are  detected  at  a  glance  on 
entering  the  rooms  —  namely,  color,  as  the 
first  requisite,  and  then  a  broad,  loose  style  of 
handling,  calculated  for  effect,  originated  by 
Reynolds  and  Gainsboro',  as  opposed  to  the 
German,  Dutch,  French  schools,  where  cor- 
rect drawing,  hard  and  laborious  finish,  and  a 
polished  surface,  are  the  prominent  character- 
istics. The  main  object  of  the  great  English 
artists  seems  to  have  been  to  see  with  how 
little  work,  by  how  few  and  broad  touches,  a 
striking  effect  could  be   produced  —  not,  how 

near  to  nature  a  work  of  art  might  be  brought 
23* 


270  LONDON. 

hy  the  combined  power  of  genius,  skill,  and 
industry.  This  has  led  to  a  great  deal  of  poor 
art.  To  such  an  extreme  have  these  princi- 
ples been  carried  in  the  extreme  examples  of 
them,  as  seen  in  Gainsboro'  himself,  and  in 
such  later  artists  as  Turner  and  Constable,  that 
it  degenerates  into  something  that  scarce  de- 
serves the  name  of  painting  ;  it  is  rather  trick, 
than  careful,  intelligent,  and  conscientious  art. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Turner  is  a  man 
of  genius  —  at  any  rate,  a  man  of  great  knowl- 
edge of  the  theoretical  principles  of  art  —  but 
in  the  few  specimens  to  be  seen  of  him  in  the 
Vernon  Gallery  there  was  not  a  glimmer  of  it, 
and  from  them  alone  one  could  only  draw  the 
conclusion,  that  his  reputation,  to  use  the 
mildest  term,  was  an  immense  exaggeration. 
One  work  in  that  gallery,  styled  Avernus,  a 
pure  landscape,  is  a  fair  example,  I  was  told, 
of  his  last  and  ultra  manner,  which  quite 
leaves  truth  behind  and  surrenders  the  whole 
field  to  theory  —  a  manner  which  mixes  up 
diverse  masses  of  color  and  other  substances, 
such   as  varnishes,  megilps,  &c.   on  dillerent 


THE    ENGLISH     SCHOOL.  271 

parts  of  a  large  canvass,  and  stirs  them  about 
with  brnshes  of  various  sizes  and  kinds,  for  an 
hour  or  so,  with  some  general  design  in  the 
head,  till  a  lively  imagination  will  at  length 
see  faint  outlines  —  no,  not  outlines,  outlines 
there  are  none  —  vague  appearances  of  certain 
objects  having  some  distant  relation  to  certain 
other  objects,  but  what  the  precise  objects, 
and  what  the  precise  relations,  not  so  easy  to 
be  determined.  The  picture  seen  from  one 
point  has  one  appearance  and  certain  probable 
objects  —  from  another,  other  appearances  and 
other  probable  objects  ;  and  a  long  and  diligent 
examination  will  never  satisfy  a  spectator  with 
any  certainty  what  the  artist  had  in  his  mind, 
nor  the  ideas  he  meant  to  convey.  Just  in  art 
as  it  sometimes  is  in  literature,  when  you  are 
obliged  to  struggle  through  wordy  thickets 
like  those  of  Coleridge's  metaphysics,  with 
nothing  for  your  pains  but  bruises  and 
scratches,  or  to  Avade  through  sloughs  of 
language  —  or  rather  phraseology  —  like  those 
of  Carlyle,  with  no  better  success.  One  can 
hardly  doubt,  from  what  we  hear,  that  Turner 


272  LONDON. 

Iid.'i  made  some  good  pictures,  though  I  was  not 
so  fortunate  as  to  see  one,  (in  oil)  as  Carlyle  at 
first  wrote  good  English.  But  as  Carlyle  can 
now  be  considered  only  as  llie  Grand  Corruptor 
of  the  English  speech  of  the  present  day,  so 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  Turner  will  exercise  a 
similar  mischievous  influence  upon  art,  and 
gain  a  like  reputation.  If  Ruskins's  book  in 
praise  of  him  should  have  the  intended  effect 
upon  the  young  artists  of  England,  art  would 
not  only  be  injured  there,  but  destroyed.  It 
is  true  both  of  the  artist  and  of  this  writer, 
that  they  can  neither  of  them,  by  any  possi- 
bility, be  satisfied  with  the  simple  statement 
of  a  truth :  it  must  always  be  more ;  neither 
considering  that  more  than  truth  —  exaggera- 
tion —  is  a  falsehood,  as  well  as  less. 

The  view  of  Venice,  in  the  same  collection, 
when  helped  out  by  an  engraver  better  than 
the  painter,  makes  a  good  picture  ;  but  as  a 
picture  done  in  oils,  it  is  but  a  series  of  crude 
masses  of  thick  paint.  The  predominant  im- 
pression made  upon  the  eye  is  paint,  paint, 
wiiat    piles    of   paint !     No    transparency,    no 


ENGLISH    AUT.  273 

hiding  of  art,  no  grace,  no  delicacy,  notliing 
like  atmosphere  —  but  mists  or  fogs  instead  — 
nothing  but  piles  of  gaudy  paint,  which  the 
ripening  of  centuries  can  never  mellow  down 
into  an  agreeable  harmony.  There  can  be  no 
rashness  in  the  prophecy,  that  before  half  a 
century  shall  have  passed,  his  now  most  fa- 
mous works  will  have  lost  their  charm;  will 
never  be  remembered  for  those  indescribable 
delicacies  and  truth  of  hues,  those  aerial  tints 
which  constitute  the  lasting  elements  of  all 
landscape  painting,  never  by  his  color  or  the 
nice  mechanics  of  his  art,  but  solely  by  his 
designs  transmitted  to  posterity  by  the  greater 
genius  of  some  engraver. 

After  having  read  the  accounts  of  Gains- 
boro',  any  one,  I  think,  would  experience  great 
disappointment  on  seeing  his  work.  It  is  art 
fit  only  to  be  seen  in  engravings  where  the 
burin  can  make  up  for  the  defects  or  lapses  of 
the  brush.  I  speak  only  of  his  landscape.  It 
is  a  series  of  coarse  daubings  —  no  beauty  or 
skill  in  the  handling,  nothing  fine  in  the  color. 
The    hues    do    not    harmonize    till  you  have 


274  i,oNno\. 

retreated  so  far  from  the  canvass  that  most  of 
the  forms  can  no  longer  be  made  out.  The 
same  difficulty  occurs,  though  in  a  much 
greater  degree,  in  looking  at  Turner's  Avernus. 
Standing  at  what  to  most  eyes  would  be 
deemed  a  proper  distance,  and  all  was  a  wild 
confusion  of  misty  paint  —  with  the  appear- 
ance of  having  been  all  done  in  a  couple  of 
hours'  time  —  which,  if  some  anecdotes  may 
be  relied  on,  may  have  been  the  case.  Then 
retreating  gradually  till  you  should  find  a  point 
where  the  colors  should  melt  into  each  other, 
you  find  you  have  got  to  such  a  distance, 
that  then,  by  reason  of  the  distance,  you  can- 
not tell  what  the  objects  are.  So  that  from 
no  one  position,  for  ditferent  reasons,  can  the 
picture  become  intelligible  or  beautiful.  As 
soon  as  the  colors  coalesce,  the  forms  are  lost. 
«The  two  great  luminaries  of  English  art  are 
Reynolds  and  Wilson.*  Their  elevation  has 
never  been  reached  by  any  of  their  followers. 
They  were  contemporaries,  and  were  men  of 


*  Hogarlh  was  rather  satirist,  dramatist,  and  humorist,  than 
artist. 


ENGLISH    ART.  275 

whom  any  era  might  be  proud,  but  especially 
the  last.  Since  that  time,  with  all  the  rich 
patronage  of  England,  with  all  their  associa- 
tions and  all  their  schools,  and  the  sums  lav- 
ished, the  character  of  art  has  dwindled  — 
artists  have  multiplied  indefinitely,  but  art  has 
not  advanced.  No  individual  of  pre-eminent 
ability  has  risen  since  in  either  portrait,  his- 
tory, or  landscape  ;  no  artist  of  equal  power 
has  succeeded  Reynolds  in  portrait,  defec- 
tive as  he  was  in  some  departments  of  his 
art.  The  only  one  with  whom  he  has  been 
generally  compared  has  been  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence,  and  he  follows  only  after  a  very^ 
very  long  interval.  Any  one  who  will  look 
at  the  Waterloo  Room  at  Windsor,  will  at  once 
see  where  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  stands.  In 
those  portraits  it  is  the  style  of  scene  painting 
—  in  other  words  the  style  of  Turner,  applied 
to  heads  and  drapery.  With  Wilson  in  land- 
scape, no  one  since  his  time  is  to  be  named. 
He  was  long  enough  in  Italy  to  learn  from  the 
artists  there,  and  particularly  from  Claude,  the 
just  middle  ground  where  breadth  and  truth 


276  LONDON. 

meet,  where  every  object  of  the  picture  is  at 
once  seen  and  understood  at  the  usual  distance 
from  the  canvass,  and  yet  no  where  a  hard, 
Dutch  minuteness.  The  aim  of  the  English 
school  has  been  to  produce  the  same  results  as 
the  Italian  artists  by  some  shorter  cut,  leaving 
out  half  the  labor,  and  saving  half  the  time  ; 
trusting  to  original  genius  to  supply  all  defi- 
ciencies. But  the  failure  has  been  conspicuous. 
Art  in  England,  at  the  present,  is  wonder- 
fully prolific  in  painters  and  pictures,  but  not 
equally  so  in  power.  It  has  become  a  great 
business  in  the  manufacture  of  calinet  \vork 
in  subjects  (not  the  style)  of  the  Dutch  school. 
It  is  a  modern  way  of  ornamenting  rooms, 
rather  than  olTcring  to  the  world  works  of 
genius,  or  works  the  result  of  high  aspirations, 
and  learned  industry.  And  this  perhaps  may 
prove  to  be  the  only  certain  effect  of  this 
modern  institution  of  Art  Unions  —  a  vast 
multiplication  of  works  of  a  respectable  me- 
diocrity, wrought  on  the  same  priiicij)les  as 
any  other  ornamental  mechanic  art,  wbich 
aims   to   confer  pleasure,   but,  much  more  to 


MODERN    ART.  277 

make  money.  But  with  the  rage  which  now 
exists  in  England  for  art,  and  the  great  num- 
bers devoted  to  it,  and  the  great  prices  which 
are  readily  obtained  for  works  of  even  tolera- 
ble merit,  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if 
works  of  considerable  excellence  did  not  make 
their  appearance.  Still  one  prominent  cause 
of  the  comparative  inferiority  of  the  art  of 
painting  exists,  not  only  in  England,  but  on 
the  Continent  also,  which  must  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  no  one  can  guess  how  long, 
continue  to  produce  the  most  disastrous  efl'ects, 
and  that  is,  the  loss  of  Religion  as  the  inspir- 
ing theme,  and  the  consequent  loss  of  the 
scale  on  which  the  immortal  works  of  the  14th, 
15th,  16th  centuries  were  wrought.  Religion, 
in  its  subjects,  tended  to  enlarge  and  elevate 
and  strengthen  the  mind  of  the  artist ;  and, 
hardly  less,  the  life  or  even  colossal  size  on 
which  the  frescoes  on  the  walls  and  ceilings 
of  churches  were  done.  The  existence  of 
this  cause  alone,  during  those  centuries,  were 
enough  to  explain  the   rise   of  that  crowd  of 

brilliant  men  that    made    those    times    illus- 
24 


278  LONDON. 

trioiis  ;  and  the  absence  of  it  now,  to  explain 
the  dwarfed  and  dwindled  art  of  to-day.  Cor- 
rectness of  drawing  and  general  truth  were 
absolutely  essential  when  all  was  ou  the  scale 
of  life.  Errors  were  then  instantly  detected 
by  the  general  eye  :  while  now,  the  modern 
cabinet  size,  or  less,  serves  as  a  safe  veil  to 
conceal  all  sorts  of  blunders,  but  especially 
errors  in  form. 

London  is,  as  a  city,  in  its  municipal  ar- 
rangements, government  and  laws,  perhaps  the 
most  complete  in  the  world.  All  seems  in  the 
most  perfect  order ;  every  thing  in  its  place, 
like  the  brooms,  brushes,  and  dusting  cloths 
of  a  perfect  housekeeper,  and  for  that  prime 
virtue,  cleanliness,  it  is  perhaps  more  remarka- 
ble than  any  other,  notwithstanding  its  aston- 
ishing crowds,  and  the  greater  difliculty  there 
must  consequently  be  in  making  or  keeping  it 
so.  How  such  streets  as  the  Strand  and  Fleet 
Street  are  or  can  ever  be  swept,  I  never  could 
tell  ;  it  was  only  necessary  to  suppose  that  as 
they  were  as  clean  as  any  others,  the  work 


MUNICIPAL    ARRANGEMENTS.  279 

must  be  done  by  night  and  gas  light.  The 
city  is  not  quite  so  clean  probably  as  some  of 
the  Dutch  towns,  where  the  scrubbing  brush 
is  applied  to  tJie  sidewalks.  Even  the  air 
of  London  seems  swept  and  sweetened,  save 
in  a  few  neighborhoods.  The  atmosphere  is 
often  indeed  thick  with  miugled  smoke  and 
fog,  but  the  sense  of  smell  is  rarely  offended 
there,  which  is  the  best  evidence  conceivable 
of  an  all-pervading  cleanliness,  a  cleanliness 
reaching  into  all  lanes,  alleys,  and  back-yards. 
On  the  continent,  though  its  cities  are  often  so 
much  more  imposing  to  the  eye,  through  the 
greater  loftiness  of  the  houses,  than  those  of 
London,  to  another  sense,  quite  as  important 
to  one's  comfort  and  much  more  so  to  one's 
health,  the  annoyance  and  disgust  are  unceas- 
ing and  universal.  All  this,  the  cleanliness, 
the  order,  the  safety  of  this  great  metropolis, 
is  of  course  owing  very  much  to  the  perfection 
of  the  new  police,  but  much  more,  I  appre- 
hend, to  the  general  character  of  the  people. 
This  police  is  a  universal  presence  in  London. 
You  can  hardly  pass  fifty  persons  any  where 


2S0  LONDON. 

in  any  street,  lane  or  alley,  but  you  meet  a 
police-man  with  his  short  baton,  his  white 
cotton  gloves,  his  tight-buttoned  coat  ;  and 
wherever  and  whenever  you  meet  one,  it  is 
witli  a  sense  of  safety  and  protection.  He  is 
the  guardian,  especially,  of  the  stranger.  An 
inquiry  of  any  sort  is  sure  to  be  answered 
promptly  and  civilly.  If  one  is  doubtful  of 
his  way,  by  day  or  night,  but  especially  by 
night,  should  he  obtain  his  direction  from  a 
police-man,  and  he  will  be  sure  against  de- 
ception —  never  quite  sure  otherwise. 

All  that  side  of  life  in  London  that  has 
relation  to  locomotion,  either  on  the  narrowest 
or  the  broadest  scale,  from  the  employment 
of  a  porter,  a  barrow,  a  handcart,  to  a  cab,  a 
hackney  coach,  an  omnibus,  a  railroad  car  or 
train  —  all  such  arrangements  are  like  those  of 
the  English  household,  remarkable  for  their 
punctuality,  trustworthiness,  skill,  celerity, 
honesty,  neatness.  Nothing  can  be  conceived 
more  complete  in  all  its  parts  than  the  man- 
agement of  the  post-office  department  in  Lon- 
don.    Ten  times  daily  all  throughout  Ijondon 


POLICE POST-OFFICE CLEANLINESS.   28  1 

is  there  a  penny-post  delivery  of  letters.  No 
private  means  of  conveyance  are  to  be  com- 
pared for  promptness,  certainty,  cheapness, 
with  the  public  provision  made  for  the  trans- 
mission of  letters,  papers,  notes  no  bigger  than 
the  wax  that  seals  them,  to  and  from  every 
street,  lane,  alley,  of  the  vast  metropolis.  The 
remarkable  feature  is  not  that  there  should  be 
such  an  office,  in  its  theory,  but  that  it  should 
be  practically  managed  with  such  perfection  — 
that  nothing  should  ever  be  lost,  or  scarcely 
missing  :  the  system  reaching  down  with  equal 
fidelity  to  the  convenience  and  wants  of  the 
humblest  citizen  in  the  obscurest  corner  of 
the  remotest  by-way  of  the  city. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  cleanliness  of  the 
streets.  This  virtue  is  I  believe  a  universal 
characteristic,  not  of  London  alone,  but  of  all 
England.  The  indoor  and  outdoor  habits  of 
the  people  are  almost  irreproachable  in  this 
respect.  Yet  save  in  respect  to  the  neatness 
and  thorough  finish  in  regard  to  gardens, 
grounds,  and  all  the  immediate  surroundings 

of  a  dwelling-house   or  farm,  which  are  more 
24* 


282  LONDON. 

than  irreproachable,  I  do  not  know  that  there 
is  much  difference  to  be  noted  between  Eng- 
lish and  American  habits  —  one  habit  alone 
excepted,  presently  to  be  noticed.  House- 
keeping can  hardly  be  more  neatly  conducted 
in  any  part  of  England  than  in  Massachusetts 
or  New  York.  But  all  the  environments  of 
a  country  house  or  farm,  all  such  outside 
buildings  as  out-houses,  sheds  for  cattle  and 
pigs,  cattle  yards,  barns,  and  so  on,  are,  in 
America,  as  the  rule,  dirty,  neglected,  slov- 
enly, ruinous,  in  the  comparison.  The  old 
rubbish  that  is  suffered  to  accumulate  about 
one  half  the  New  England  country  dwellings, 
specially  about  the  barns,  the  old  tumble-down 
sheds,  and  roofless  corn-barns,  the  old  carts, 
wagons,  chaises,  and  other  carriages  of  all  sorts 
and  names,  the  fragments  of  old  sleighs,  old 
wheels  with  tires  off  or  on,  piles  of  rotten 
boards,  barrels,  boxes  and  wheelbarrows,  kept 
in  such  places,  one  must  suppose  on  some 
principle  of  reverence  of  family  antiquities, 
from  year  to  year,  and  even  from  century  to 
century,  is  a  curious  feature   in   our  country 


CLEANLINESS.  283 

society,  and  worth  examining  into  for  its 
cause,  where  all  else  seems  so  well  ordered 
and  neat.  In  families  of  a  modern  date,  a 
change  for  the  better  is  quite  observable  ;  as, 
also,  in  a  more  abundant  use  of  whitewash, 
which,  not  many  years  ago,  in  Massachusetts, 
would  be  applied  to  ceilings  and  walls  once  in 
ten,  twenty,  fifty  years,  and  perhaps  never. 
Any  one  may  remember  to  have  seen  ceilings 
black  with  age  and  dirt,  while  at  the  same 
time  the  stairs,  floors  and  dressers  would  be 
white  as  soap  and  sand  could  make  them. 
Among  the  descendants  of  the  Dutch  emi- 
grants the  same  sort  of  anomalies  are  to  be 
noticed,  where,  while  all  interiors  of  dwellings 
are  without  spot  or  stain,  all  yards  and  streets 
in  any  neighborhood  are  absolutely  impassable 
for  every  kind  of  disgusting  filth.  The  city 
of  New  York  is  equally  remarkable  with  the 
smaller  villages  for  this  sort  of  strange  pecu- 
liarity —  indeed,  more  remarkable  probably 
than  any  other  place,  large  or  small,  in  Europe 
or  America. 

I  have  said  a  few   words  of  the  nice  and 


284  LONOON. 

cleanly  habits  of  the  English,  in  their  houses 
and  cities.  In  their  persons  they  are  equally 
remarkable  for  the  virtue.  The  Englishman, 
if  not  always  handsomely,  is  at  least  always 
appropriately  and  neatly  dressed.  Dress  is 
almost  a  part  of  his  religion.  The  fashions 
of  England  are  not  of  so  much  elegance  as 
those  of  France,  or  America,  which  in  this 
particular  is  French  rather  than  English.  An 
English  coat  is  a  clumsy  structure  compared 
with  either  a  French  or  an  American  one. 
But  the  English  is  always  better  brushed; 
and,  for  his  hat,  it  looks  as  if  it  were  every 
day  newly  varnished.  His  linen  is  perhaps 
oftener  changed  than  with  others.  But  wheth- 
er that  be  so  or  not,  one  thing  is  clear,  that 
although  a  London  atmosphere  will  in  the 
case  of  a  stranger  mark  it  throughout  in 
black  streaks  in  a  few  hours,  for  some  un- 
fathomable reason  the  Englishman's  bosoms 
and  wrists  maintain  their  stainless  white. 
There  arc  those,  I  am  persuaded,  from  what 
may  be  observed  at  home,  persons  on  whom  a 
fly  never  lights,  and  a  grain  of  dust  never  falls. 


AN    AMERICAN    HABIT.  285 

It  is  the  only  way  of  accounting  for  their  shirt 
collars.  Insects  and  dast,  as  a  general  thing, 
abhor  and  shun  the  Englishman. 

One  trait  more,  though  with  the  risk  of 
disgusting  some  and  offending  more  —  though 
I  will  hope  not.*  An  Englishman,  I  believe, 
rarely  chews,  and,  compared  with  the  Ameri- 
can, rarely  smokes  ;  but  whether  he  does  not 
secretly  practise  both  these  abominations  I  am 
not  prepared  to  say.  But  with  both  these  pro- 
vocatives, if  it  be  so,  one  thing  he  never  does, 
is,  to  spit.  That  fact  draws  a  line  of  de- 
marcation between  the  Englishman  and  the 
American,  broader  and  deeper  a  thousand-fold 
than  any  other,  in  politics,  government,  laws, 
language,  religion.      The  Englishman  never 

*  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  be  ostracised  on  the  score  of  taste 
for  introducing  this  topic,  if,  by  calling  attention  to  it,  it  may  be 
the  means  of  redeeming  a  few  even  from  a  habit  which  makes 
our  whole  country  a  bye-word  and  an  otTence  all  over  the  civilized 
world.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  in  regard  to  this  practice  hardly 
a  gentleman  in  his  manners  is  any  where  to  be  found.  One 
meets  persons  constantly  at  public  places,  in  public  conveyances, 
with  the  dress  and  outward  aspect  of  well  bred  men,  many  whom 
you  know  to  come  under  the  category  of  what  is  called  the  best 
society,  with  whose  personal  habits,  as  you  are  unfortunately 
obliged  to  sit  beside  them  in  some  rail  car,  you  can  be  filled  only 
with  an  unconquerable  disgust. 


286  LONDON. 

spits.  Or  if  he  does,  he  first  goes  home,  shuts 
himself  up  in  liis  room,  locks  his  door,  argues 
the  necessity  of  the  case  ;  if  necessary,  per- 
forms the  disagreeable  duty,  and  returns  to 
society  with  a  clear  conscience.*  The  Ameri- 
ican  spits  always,  and  every  where  ;  sometimes 
when  it  is  necessary ;  always,  when  it  is  not. 
It  is  his  occupation,  his  pastime,  his  business. 
Many  do  nothing  else  all  their  lives  ;  and 
always  indulge  in  that  singular  recreation 
when  they  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Some- 
times in  a  state  of  momentary  forgetfulness 
he  intermits,  but  then,  as  if  he  had  neglected 

*  Every  American  is  born  perhaps  to  the  lial)it ;  though  my 
earliest  recollections  are  of  its  having  been  ever  sternly  inter- 
dicted. Still,  universal  bad  exanijile  had  its  unavoidable  bad 
etrect  to  a  certain  extent.  In  England  I  happened  one  day  to  be 
in  a  country  post-office  in  company  with  another  person.  I  felt  a 
disagreeable  necessity  upon  me.  I  knew  I  was  in  England,  and 
could  not,  for  such  a  purpose  as  I  had  in  view,  escape  from  the 
country.  I  did  what  I  could  ;  but,  1  am  willing  to  confess,  fell 
short  of  my  duty.  I  had  passed  through  two  rooms  and  a  hall  to 
reach  the  letter-box.  I  suddenly  retreated  through  the  two  rooms, 
leaving  my  companion  as  I  supposed  with  the  postmaster.  I 
reached  a  large  mat  at  the  outside  door.  I  ought  to  have  sought 
the  street,  ll  was  a  great  error.  But  before  I  could  commence  my 
return,  my  companion  —  my  good  genius  —  was  at  my  ear,  and 
hoarsely  whispered  —  "  Vou  must  never  do  that  beneath  an  Eng- 
lish roof."  An  illustration  at  once  of  the  two  most  distinctive 
trails  of  ilie  Engli;>limun  —  cleanliness  and  manliness. 


AN    AMERICAN    HABIT.  287 

a  sworn  duty,  returns  to  it  again  with  con- 
science-smitten vigor.  He  spits  at  home  and 
abroad,  by  night  and  by  day,  awake  and 
asleep,  in  company  and  in  solitude,  for  his 
own  amusement  and  the  edification  of  a  spit- 
ting community.  On  the  freshly  painted  or 
scoured  floor,  on  the  clean  deck  of  a  ship,  or 
steamboat,  on  parlor  floors,  covered  whether 
with  ingrained,  Brussels,  Wilton,  or  Turkey, 
even  there  he  voids  his  rheum  ;  upon  the 
unabsorbent  canvass,  so  that  one  may  see, 
where  numbers  congregate,  the  railroad  cars 
to  run  in  more  ways  than  one.  The  pulpits 
and  pews  of  churches  are  not  safe.  The 
foot  pavement  of  the  streets,  the  floors  of  all 
public  places,  of  exchanges,  hotels,  of  Con- 
gress halls,  are  foul  with  it  ;  and  in  railroad 
cars  it  must  always  be  necessary  for  a  lady  to 
shorten  her  garments,  as  if  about  to  walk  in 
the  deep  mud  of  the  street,  or  the  snow  and 
water  of  spring,  if  she  would  escape  defile- 
ment to  either  her  dress  or  her  slippers.  As 
the  power  of  direction  of  these  human  missiles 
is  by  no  means  unerring,   notwithstanding  so 


288  LONDON. 

much  practice,  one's  own  person,  and  all  parts 
of  his  person,  are  exposed  to  the  random  shots 
of  this  universal  foe  of  American  civilized  life; 
and  often  he  finds  on  different  parts  of  his 
dress  proofs  abundant  of  the  company  he  has 
kept.  The  only  single  spot  absolutely  secure 
is  a  man's  face  ;  and  that  would  not  be,  were 
it  not  for  the  fear  of  a  duel. 

That  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  exaggera- 
tion in  this  description,  coarse  as  it  is,  and 
coarse  as  it  has  been  my  intention  to  make  it, 
all  Americans,  and  all  travellers  who  have  ever 
been  within  an  American  hotel,  steamboat,  or 
rail-car  —  all  will  testify.  And  the  result  of 
it  all  is,  I  suppose,  that  we  are  the  freest  and 
most  enlightened  people  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  !  But  for  one,  republican  as  I  am  in 
principle,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  would 
prefer  the  despotism  of  Austria,  Russia,  or 
Rome,  to  the  freedom,  if  I  must  take  with 
it  the  spit,  of  America.  It  is  vice  enough  to 
tempt  one  to  forswear  home,  country,  kindred, 
friends,  religion.  It  is  amj)le  cause  for  break- 
ing acquaintance,  friendship,  for  a  divorce.     In 


AN    AMERICAN    HABIT.  289 

a  word,  it  is  our  grand  national  distinction,  it* 
we  did  but  know"  it.  There  are  certainly 
parts  of  the  country  comparatively,  but  only 
comparatively,  free  from  this  vice.  Here  at 
the  north  there  is  much  less  than  at  the  west 
and  the  south,  though  here  enough  of  it  to 
disgust  one  with  his  race.  In  proportion  as 
general  refinement  prevails,  the  custom  abates. 
At  the  south,  no  carpets,  no  rooms,  no  presence 
affords  protection.*  Here,  in  the  best  rooms, 
the  best  society,  there  is  partial  exemption  ; 
though  not  often  enough  from  the  presence 
of  that  ingenious,  fearfnl  patent,  the  brazen, 
china,  or  earthen  box. 

Would  that  my  country  could  be  induced 
to  pause  in  this  its  wonderful  career !  Pity 
some  public  effort  could  not  be  made  by  way 
of  general  convention,  or  otherwise,  for  the 
abatement    of    this    national    mischief — cer- 


*  Let  six  such  Americans  meet  round  a  stove,  in  a  bar-room, 
or  parlor,  or  hotel  drawing-room,  of  a  morning  —  of  the  six,  four 
will  spit  before  speaking  a  word  ;  one  will  bid  good  morning 
first,  and  spit  afterwards  ;  the  sixth  will  make  a  remark  some- 
what at  length  upon  the  weather,  and,  by  way  of  compensation 
for  exlraorJinary  retention,  spit  twice  or  thrice. 
25 


290  LONDON. 

tainly  as  worthy  of  attention,  as  very  many 
of  onr  political  and  moral  reforms.  The 
advice  of  the  London  snrgeon,  Abernethy, 
to  an  American  sea-captain,  was  at  any 
rate  useful  to  us  all,  and  pregnant  with  good 
medical  philosophy.  "  Keep  your  saliva  in 
your  mouth  to  help  digest  your  food  with," 
said  he,  "and  not  spit  it  all  over  my  carpet." 
Very  wholesome  coimsel.  And,  seriously,  who 
can  say,  how  much  the  pallid  face,  the  pro- 
verbial indigestion  of  om-  country,  even  con- 
sumption itself,  may  not  be  owing  to  this 
constant  drain  which  deprives  the  stomach  of 
a  secretion  which  nature  provided  for  the  most 
important  purposes  in  the  manufacture  of  the 
blood,  and  which  she  certainly  did  not  pro- 
vide to  be  wasted  and  thrown  about  in  the 
rnaiuier  of  the  Anirlo-American.* 


*  It  seems  lo  he  quite  within  the  power  of  railroad  directors, 
captains  of  sleamhoats,  keepers  of  taverns,  hotels,  lioaniiiig  and 
eating  houses,  &c.,  to  do  someihin<(  to  check,  at  least,  the  vile 
practice.  The  difficulty,  however,  one  must  supjjose,  would  le, 
that  they  themselves  are  too  often  in  the  same  condemnation. 
Hut  it  must  he  worth  considering  on  economical  erounds,  whether 
it  were  not  deservin"-  of  a  serious  effort  to  break  up  a  hahil  that 
costs  the  lahor  and  wages  of  many  servants  daily,  in  any  consid- 


ENGLISH  LOVF.  OF  MONEY,        291 

To  any  American  traveller  through  Eng- 
land, it  must  be  quite  observable  how  com- 
merce atid  the  love  of  money,  stocks  and 
trade,  all  throughout  England,  override  letters, 
art,  nobility  —  every  thing,  in  a  word,  but  law. 
England  is  still  comparatively  free  and  law- 
abiding.  But  once  England  was  known 
abroad  rather  by  her  great  names  in  literature 
and  science  —  Bacon,  Locke,  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  Newton,  Davy,  were  the  names  first 
suggested.  Now  they  are  of  quite  another 
character;  Manchester,  Birmingham,  Sheffield, 
are  to-day  words  of  a  more  powerful  spell. 
Cottons  and  cutlery,  carpets  and  coats,  wool- 
lens and  worsted,  now  reign  paramount.  The 
chimneys  of  iimumerable  engines  belching 
smoke    like    volcanoes,   now   spread   darkness 

eralile  estahlishinent,  to  make  apartments  decent  or  hahitalile  after 
the  passasre  of  a  single  day,  owing  to  this  single  filihy  practice. 
They  may  well  consiiler,  too,  whether  their  gnesls  have  any  more 
right  to  s()it  about  apartments  and  on  floors,  than  they  have  to 
throw  upon  them  a  shovel  full  or  harrow  load  of  any  other  kind 
of  ordure.  It  is  certainly  an  advantage  to  three  of  our  cities  that 
the  Cdchituate,  the  Croloii,  and  the  Schuylkill  run  through  them. 
If  branches  of  them  could  in  any  way  he  turned  through  our  rail- 
road cars  daily,  it  would  be  an  indescribalile  benefit  to  the  compa- 
nies concerned,  and  the  community  generally. 


292  LONDON. 

ovnr  the  land.  Foreign  fleets  from  both 
worlds  crowd  the  docks  of  London  and  Liv- 
erpool, bearing  along  with  them  countless 
throngs  of  partners,  traders,  agents,  clerks, 
from  all  the  known  regions  of  the  earth,  to 
drive  their  bargains  with  the  modern  lords  of 
the  soil  no  longer  the  secluded  occupants  of 
distant  country-seats,  long  descended  from 
illustrious  ancestors,  inaccessible  save  to  a 
sacred  few,  but  installed  behind  London 
counters,  or  within  remoter  counting-rooms  ; 
attended,  not  by  foot-pages  and  liveried  ser- 
vants innumerable  as  once,  but,  instead,  be- 
sieged by  armies  of  clerks,  agents,  runners  and 
drummers,  all  equally  intent  upon  the  service  of 
the  modern  chivalry,  money  making.  The  Lon- 
don man  of  business  is  now  the  true  earl,  baron, 
duke  of  the  empire.  The  lust  of  wealth  has 
seized  all  hearts,  and  enslaved  them  and  bound 
them  in  chains  stronger  even  —  though  so  dif- 
ferent—  than  those  which  bound  the  old  lords 
of  the  soil  in  the  days  of  Charles  the  Second. 
Tliis  modern  chivalry  is  an  improvement  upon 
the  old  in   point  of  morals,  but  would  not,  I 


ENGLISTI    LOVE    OF    MONEY.  203 

fear,  be  thought  so  genteel.  The  Lovelaces 
would  probably  be  considered  a  more  gentle- 
manly breed  in  the  calendar  where  such  things 
are  graduated,  than  the  brewer,  the  grocer,  the 
cotton-spinner,  the  ironmonger,  who  now  reign 
in  the  ascendant.  But  the  world  will  gene- 
rally agree  to  bestow  honor  and  reverence 
where  the  power  is,  and  in  1S50  money  is 
power.*  Money  is,  in  England,  King,  Lords, 
and  Commons.  Money  is  the  real  nobility. 
Bankers  are  the  true  ministry,  and  determine 
questions  of  peace  and  war,  and  make  the 
treaties.  The  Rothschilds,  though  they  can- 
not get  into  Parliament,  rule  with  equal  des- 
potism on  the  outside.     The  England  of  the 


*  The  pride  of  money  is  the  universal  prirle  of  the  English  ; 
and  the  love  of  displayins  it  in  the  most  ostentatious  expendi- 
tures, is  another  trait  quite  oliservalile.  To  throw  aliout  money 
with  an  expression  of  sovereign  contempt  for  those  to  whom  it  is 
thrown,  is  altosjether  English.  The  Americans  love  money  and 
love  more  to  spend  it  —  but  almost  never  in  that  spirit.  Eraser 
says:  "  Perhaps  never  since  the  time  of  the  Roman  Empire  was 
mniii>y  so  omnipotent  as  in  England  at  this  moment  (IS.jO).  Not 
only  it  commands  all  enjoyment,  it  commands  all  respect."  So 
think  and  speak  miny  English,  to  their  credit.  A  most  highly 
cultivated  English  genlleirian  resident  ahroid,  e.xpressed  no  dis- 
like so  deep  as  of  his  own  travelling  countrymen.  Tlicy  were  a 
Irihe  whom  he  always  shunned. 
20* 


291  LONDON. 

nineteenth  century  is  but  one  vast  counting- 
house.  Tlie  slur  of  Napoleon  is  truer  now 
than  when  first  uttered,  that  England  is  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers. 

This  is,  of  course,  what  we  are,  also,  to  a 
very  considerable  extent.  Agriculture,  how- 
ever, as  yet,  bears  away  the  palm,  and  will 
for  some  time  to  come.  We  are  still  farmers, 
much  more  than  traders.  But  though  we,  as 
well  as  they,  were  all  shopkeepers,  it  must 
surely  be  considered  as  following  a  more 
Christian,  as  a  more  reputable  business,  than 
pleasure  and  idleness,  though  England  is  yet 
so  far  in  darkness  as  not  to  think  so,  and  to 
feel  a  little  ashamed  of  her  modern  destiny; 
and  fond  as  her  children  are  of  money,  and  of 
all  it  brings,  they  would  almost  be  ready  to 
abandon  it,  with  all  its  power,  for  a  very  little 
rank.  Tiiey  glory  in  their  wealth,  but  have 
no  sooner  made  it  than  they,  without  a  mo- 
mcnfs  hesitation,  would  surrender  it  all  for  a 
prefi.x  of  Lord  or  Sir  to  the  name. 

But  though  all  this  be  so  true,  —  this  devo- 
tion of  England  to  commerce  and  the  accumu- 


CANT.  295 

lation  of  wealth,  and  their  success  in  heaping 
np  riches  beyond  any  other  people  on  earth  — 
they  are  very  much  grieved  that  the  American 
should   be   touched  with  the   same   infirmity, 
and,  as  we  well  know,  never  cease  from  ten- 
derly upbraiding    us   for   our   devotion   to   the 
"  almighty  dollar."     This  is  all  most  kindly 
meant,  no  doubt,  but   it  reveals  a  trait  in  the 
English  character  which  deserves  a  little  at- 
tention—  their  love  and  their  practice  of  cant. 
I  suppose   if  there  be  one  trait  by  which  it  is 
more  deeply  marked  than  by  another,  except 
two,  possibly,  already  named,  it  is  by  this  par- 
ticular form   of    hypocrisy.     Colossal    magni- 
tude  is   not  more   truly  the  characteristic   of 
London,   than    cant   is  of   the   English   mind. 
To   read   their  journals,  reviews,  papers,  and 
books,  you  would  fancy  them,  from  what  they  \ 
say  of  themselves,  to  represent  the  most  moral  , 
and  religious,  the  most  loving  and  peaceable,  ; 
the  most  generous  and  magnanimous,  the  most   '[/ 
self-sacrificing,  pious  and   Christian  people   in  ) 
the  wide  world.     But  whether  they  in   truth  ' 
are  what  they  seem   to  many  to  be,  because   ' 


296  LONDON. 

tliey  arrogate  these  virtues  to  themselves  so 
freely,  is  more  than  doubted  by  the  world 
at  large,  mid  quite  denied  by  such  learned 
domestic  authorities  as  Carlyle  and  Punch. 
Even  the  Edinburgh  hints  at  "a  form  of  re- 
ligious insincerity  called  cant,"  as  the  "special 
infirmity  of  the  people."  These,  but  espe- 
cially the  two  first  named,  are  the  doctors 
who  particularly  apply  themselves  to  the  cure 
of  this  easy-besetting  sin  of  the  English  char- 
acter. Yet  honestly,  fearlessly,  powerfnlly  as 
they  have  plied  their  trade,  they  have  found 
the  disease  too  deep  seated  to  be  easily  erad- 
icated. Native,  moreover,  to  the  constitution 
of  the  entire  people,  and  long  hereditary, 
unfortunately,  it  has  been  caught  by  the  Anglo- 
American,  and.  though  weakened  by  transmis- 
sion, fiinds  itself  in  a  hopeful  way,  and  with 
encouraging  prospects  before  it  —  but  by  no 
means,  as  yet,  in  the  condition  of  the  parent 
people.  In  England  the  very  occupation  of 
the  people  seems  to  be  straining  at  gnats  and 
swallowing  camels.  They  are  filled  with  a 
very   virtuous    indignation    at    the    contiinied 


CANT. 


291 


existence  of  American  slavery,  although  it  was 
they  who  planted  it  here,  and  that,  too,  against 
onr  will  and  most  earnest  remonstrances,  while 
at  the  same  time  they  swallow  without  diffi- 
culty the  slavery  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
millions  of  Hindoos.  In  what  proportion  out 
of  the  whole  there  is  personal  slavery,  where 
there  is  buying  and  selling,  and  labor  without 
remuneration,  that  basest,  meanest  form  of  ty- 
ranny, I  know  not,  though  the  proportion  is  very 
great,*  but  that  there  is  political  slavery  there 


*  Thus  much,  however,  maj'  be  said :  In  the  dominions  of  Brit- 
ish India  there  are  estimated  to  1)8  not  far  from  a  million  of  slaves, 
domestic  and  field  slaves,  subject  to  all  the  usual  conditions  of 
that  miserable  life,  such  as  scant  nutriment,  the  torture  of  the 
lash  —  going  even  som  times  to  murder — bujing  and  selling, 
separation  of  families,  &c.  Adam,  quoting  McNaghten,  Baber, 
Colebrook,  Hamilton,  Richardson  and  other  authorities  on  Indian 
affairs,  comes  to  such  results.  "  The  legality  of  Hindoo  slave- 
ry," says  Mr.  Adam,  "  has  been  revived,  and  that  of  Rlahomme- 
dan  slavery  has  been  continued  by  the  British  government,  which 
should  have  equally  refused  to  sanction  both."  How  far  a  pru- 
dent regard  for  revenue  has  withheld  this  sanction,  Mr.  Adam 
does  not  say,  but  may  be  easily  inferred.  The  love  of  money  is 
the  rivet  in  the  chain  of  both  Indian  and  American  slavery.  In 
one  as  much  as  the  other.  "  There  are  many  circumstances  which 
cannot  but  be  regarded  with  shame  by  every  British  suliject  pos- 
sessed of  the  common  feelings  of  humanity;  but  the  sale  of  s/o»es 
away  from  their  birth-place, for  arrears  of  revenue  to  the  govern- 
vient,  furnishes  the  last  touch  to  the  dark  picture."     Thirty-two 


208  LON-OOM. 

throughout  that  whole  immense  population  all 
the  world  knows;  a  slavery,  beneath  which 
the  East  Indian  is  ground  to  powder  by  the 
irresistible  power  of  English  arms,  and  by 
which  the  proceeds  of  his  industry,  or  his 
hereditary  wealth,  are  wrung  from  him  by 
compulsory  process,  and,  by  tlteir  impoverish- 
ment, the  most  gigantic  fortunes  accumulated 
all  over  the  British  islands,  and,  as  well,  sine- 


years  have  passed  away,  acconliiio  to  Mr.  Adam,  since  tlie 
first  efforts  were  made  for  the  aholilion  or  amelioration  of  the 
evil,  "  liut  it  is  still  unchecked,  unreforiiied,  unremedied;  and 
yet  an  evil,  while  equally  mali?nant,  so  much  more  easy  and 
simple  of  remedy  than  among  our  American  States."  "  In  other 
slavchoiding  countries,"  says  Mr.  Adnm,  "  the  difficulties  lo 
emancipation  consist  not  only  in  the  supposed  interests  of  slave- 
holders, liut  in  the  alleged  unfitness  of  the  slaves  for  the  rights 
and  duties  of  freedom.  No  such  difficulty,  no  such  unfitness, 
can  he  alleged  in  Inilia.  Tiie  slaves  of  India  are  not  of  foreign 
l)irlh  and  stran?e  aspect.  They  do  not  speak  a  difTercnl  language, 
profess  a  different  religion,  ])raclise  different  customs  from  the 
rest  of  the  country.  They  are  children  of  the  soil.  Their  eman- 
cipation would  lie  only  one  step  out  of  many  necessary  to  this 
im))rovement  of  their  condition."  As  the  English  propose — to 
which  there  would  he  no  possible  olijeclion  —  that  our  South 
shoidd  furnisii  samples  of  their  slave  population,  for  the  great 
exhiliition,  we  would  propose,  as  only  fair,  that  East  India 
England  should  al.so  furnish  their  varieties  of  slaves  from 
Assam.  Mysore,  the  Carnatic,  Tanjore,  Travaiicore,  and  the 
immediate  neighliorhoods  of  Calcutta,  Madras,  Bomliay :  it 
■would  supply  a  much  prettier  and  larger  variety  liian  Americau 
Africa. 


CANT. 


299 


ciirist  idlers,  without  nnmher,  throughout  the 
Indian  peninsulas,  enriched  by  enormous  sala- 
ries, —  natives  doing  all  the  work  for  what 
rice  and  rupees  will  keep  them  from  starving. 
Notwithstanding  the  frequent  display  on  the 
part  of  travelling  Englishmen  and  the  review- 
writing  Englishmen,  of  the  most  generous 
sentiments  and  sympathies  on  behalf  of  the 
blacks,  and  their  expression  of  wonder  and 
regret  that  the  American  white  should  refuse 
to  consort  on  equal  terms  with  the  free  African, 
it  is  still  true  that  color,  even  the  light  olive 
tint  of  the  Hindoo,  bears  the  same  mark  of 
degradation  in  Calcutta,  and  to  many  even  in 
London  as  here,  and  the  white  Englishman 
will  not  sit  at  meat  with  the  East  Indian, 
though  he  be  a  prince  or  a  philosopher.  There 
were  gentlemen,  who,  though  invited,  would 
not  dine  in  company  with  Ram  Mohun  Roy, 
though  a  full-blooded  Rajah,  and  a  most 
learned  and  accomplished  man  —  "indignant- 
ly refusing  to  sit  at  table  with  that  black 
fellow,"  —  They  lectiu'e  the  world  on  the 
virtues    and    duties    of    peace,    but     without 


300 


LONDON. 


scruple  will  let  loose  the  dogs  of  war  whenever 
their  flannels,  their  cottons,  their  woollens,  iron, 
or  opium,  are  interfered  with.  —  They  give 
suppers  and  breakfasts,  and  have  all  their 
equipages  in  full  liveried  action  on  Sundays, 
whereby  armies  of  servants  of  higher  and 
lower  degrees  are  detained  in  personal  at- 
tendance on  their  masters  throughout  the  day, 
and,  for  a  pretence,  stop  the  Sunday  mail,  that 
all  the  various  operatives  connected  therewith 
may  be  at  leisure  to  go  to  church  as  they 
ought  to  do,  and  say  their  prayers.  —  They  are 
sadly  pained  that  the  American  should  love 
the  dollar  so  well,  the  only  difference  being 
that  their  love  of  the  pound  is  the  same,  only 
five  times  as  much.  —  They  have  made  a  great 
ado,  and  with  justice  and  sense,  about  the 
virtue  of  temperance  in  England,  —  there  is 
need  of  it,  for  the  English,  and  still  more  the 
Scotch  and  Irish,  are  a  nation  of  hard  drink- 
ers ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  made  cruel 
and  cowardly  war,  but  a  few  years  since, 
upon  the  Chinese,  to  compel  them  to  get 
drunk  on  the  opium  which  they  first  forced 


CANT. 


301 


them  to  bay  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.*  — 
They  are  really  mortified  that  we,  who  they 
cannot,  to  their  manifest  chagrin,  deny,  sprung 
from  English  blood,  are  still  so  low  in  civili- 
zation that  we  produce  little  literature,  and  no 
art,  as  yet,  (West,  Copley,  Stuart,  Allston, 
Inman,  being  Englishmen, t  just  as  Wilson, 
Reynolds,  Lawrence,  Wilkie,  Wyatt  and  Gib- 
son are  or  were,  of  course,  Italians,  —  the  first 
having  been  at  school  a  while  in  London,  the 
last  in  Rome,)  not  remembering  that  England, 
a  thousand  years  older  than  we  at  that  time, 
produced  no  artists  before  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  to  this  day  has  pro- 
duced not  one  of  the  highest  class ;  the  taste 
of  England  never  having  risen  above  the  ad- 
miration of  Carlo  Dolce,  among  the  old 
painters,  and  now  delighting  itself  chiefly  in 
the    horses'   heads,    pet    poodles,    and   woolly 


*  It  was  probaMj-  the  outrageous  insolence  of  Napier,  in  liis 
intercourse  .vilh  the  Chinese  government,  even  more  than  com- 
mercial difficulties,  that  led  to  the  war.  A  more  amusing  speci- 
men of  the  true  English  spirit  could  not  be  easily  found,  than 
in  the  blustering  of  his  lordship. 

t  London  Art  Union  Journal  for  1848,  p.  204. 
26 


302  LONDON. 

lap-dogs  of  Landseer.*  —  England  riots  iti  lux- 
uries obtained  at  the  expense  of  the  comfort 
and  subsistence  of  the  lower  classes,  from 
which  she  wrings  by  taxes,  direct  and  indi- 
rect, the  last  penny  that  will  just  leave  the 
life  in  the  body,  over  whom  she  at  the  same 
time  utters  the  most  touching  lamentations  for 
their  hardships  and  miseries.  The  female  sex 
is,  in  this  case,  the  grand  sacrifice,  who,  in 
this  respect  at  least,  are  slaves  —  though  liv- 
ing on  the  boasted  soil  of  England,  that  they 
are  compelled  io  ivork  loithout  I'emuneration  ; 
for  that  cannot  be  called  remuneration  whicli 
fails  not  only  to  support  life  in  tolerable  com- 
fort, but  to  support  it  at  all ;  and  to  save  from 
starvation  by  cold  and  hunger,  resort  must  be 
had  to  vices  which,  were  God  no  more  merci- 
ful than  man,  would  destroy  soul  as  well  as 


*  The  winter  of  1849  showed  nothing  of  a  more  exalted  char- 
acter in  the  way  of  art,  at  the  print-shops  of  Picadilly,  than 
engravings  from  the  works  of  Landseer.  Krutc  life  seemed  lo 
have  oliiained  quite  the  ascendancy  over  human  :  as  much  so  as 
saints,  Chrisls,  madonnas  once  had  in  Italy.  Nothing  was  lo  he 
seen  hut  horses'  heads,  sometimes  three  or  four  in  the  same  piece, 
and  almost  the  size  of  life,  —  or  very  large  dogs,  aristocratic  or 
idi'hfian. 


CANT. 


303 


body.*  —  They  make  long  prayers  and  many 
of  them,  according  to  some  travellers,  espe- 
cially among  the  higher  classes ;  yet  seam- 
stresses, the  Spitalfield  weavers,  the  weavers 
and  spinners  in  Manchester  and  Glasgow,  and 
especially  the  innumerable  slaves  of  the  slop- 
shop, live  in  misery  and  die  in  want,  without 
any  adequate  effort  being  made  to  fix  by  law 
a  tariff — as  easy  to  be  agreed  upon,  at  least, 
as  any  other  tariff — of  prices  for  labor,  by 
which  it  should  no  longer  be  in  the  power  of 
the  richer  to  defraud  the  poorer  of  their  toil  or 
their  time.f 

I  have  spoken  of  the  English  as  remarkable 
for  their  devotion  to  the  love  of  money.  They 
used  to  love  arms  better,  and  they  still  love 
them   enough.     But   times   are   changed,   and 


*  See  a  late  number  of  the  Westminster  Review,  Art.  Pro!^litu- 
tion. 

+  The  uncalculated  and  incalculable  wealth  of  Enqland,  side  by 
side  with  its  poverty  heyomi  description  or  imai;ination,  presents 
a  monstrous  picture  of  Christian  life  —  certainly  no  less  so  than 
the  slavery  of  America,  side  by  side  with  the  boasted  freedom  of 
our  Kepuljhc,  in  the  light  of  Christianity  and  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Both  seem  to  prove  a  too  willing  olistinacy  in  wrong- 
doing—  as  both  evils  are  so  easy  of  remedy,  with  a  good  con- 
science. 


//■ 


304  LONDON. 

commerce  with  its  golden  stores  now  chiefly 
occupies  and  infatuates  the  English  mind. 
The  American,  an  equal  perhaps  in  his  knowl- 
edge of,  and  his  devotion  to,  the  science  of 
accumulation,  is  certainly,  at  present,  and  has 
been  for  a  long  time  ])ast,  his  superior  in  both 
his  passion  for  arms,  and  for  the  skill  and  suc- 
cess with  which  he  uses  them.  And  the 
reason  of  this  superiority  seems  plain  enough. 
It  is  but  a  necessary  effect  of  our  democracy 
that  the  American  sliould  be  a  better  soldier 
tlian  the  Englishman,  both  on  land  and  on 
water.  Experience  has  demonstrated  this 
superiority  whenever  we  have  come  into  col- 
lision, and  prior  to  experience  the  event  ought 
to  have  been  expected.  The  republican,  when- 
ever there  has  been  any  approach  to  equality 
of  position  and  forces,  has  ever  shown  himself 
the  better  man  of  the  two.  Thermopylo?  set- 
tled that  question  for  the  ancients  ;  Bunker 
Hill  and  the  war  of  the  revolution  for  the 
moderns.  It  could  not  be  otherwise,  except 
accidentally.  Who  will  of  necessity  be  the 
stronger,  braver,  more  powerful  man  —  and  so 


ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    SOLDIER.         305 

with  an  army  —  he  who  fights  for  monthly 
pay  —  a  low,  base-minded  hireling  —  in  the 
service  of  a  government  of  which  he  forms 
no  part,  abont  which  he  cares  little,  and  knows 
less,  except  that  it  is  an  absolute,  imperious, 
irresistible  power  set  up  over  him,  which  may 
crush  him  in  a  moment,  but  is  very  little  likely 
unexpectedly  to  bless  him  ;  or  he  who  goes  out 
to  the  field,  himself  one  of  the  lords  and  owners 
of  the  soil,  who  carries  his  government  on  his 
back,  who,  yesterday,  a  private,  to-morrow 
may  be  king,  is,  in  a  word,  himself  king  and 
country  ?  Who  can  doubt  what  the  result 
must  be,  if  an  hundred,  a  thousand,  or  an  hun- 
dred thousand  of  men,  of  spirit  and  character 
so  opposite,  should  be  pitted  against  each  other  ? 
A  republican  spirit  rising  up  against  oppression 
can  never  be  suppressed,  but  in  the  case  of  the 
most  overwhelming  disproportion  of  forces  ; 
which  was  the  case  lately  in  Hungary,  and 
the  principal,  if  not  the  sole  cause  of  her  fail- 
ure. She  was  conquered  not  by  the  spirit  and 
power  of  legitimacy,  but  by  the  innumerable 
hordes  of  barbarians  of  the  north.     Her  free- 

A*0 


306  LONDON. 

dom,  under  her  circumstances,  was  simply  a 
physical  impossibility.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  an  act  of  insanity  than  her  revolu- 
tion, attempted  by  so  diminutive  a  power 
against  the  supremacy  of  Austria,  and  Russia. 
At  first  Hungary  was  every  where  successful, 
—  the  reason  was,  it  was  then  the  spirit  of 
freedom  encountering  equal,  sometimes  even 
superior  forces.  But  this  was  accidental.  After 
a  battle  or  two  it  was  all  over  with  her.  Hun- 
gary was  already  exhausted.  Her  first  forces 
were  all  her  forces,  while  her  adversary  w'as 
drawing  upon  a  bank  of  inexhaustible  resources, 
whose  drafts  never  could  be  dishonored.  Her 
overthrow  was  as  inevitable  as  that  a  hundred 
men  can  always  beat  off  five  men.  Her 
attempt  was  but  a  sublime  folly,  a  glorious 
madness.  Freedom  was  unfortunate,  not  de- 
feated. 

Free  as  England  is  in  comparison  with  con- 
tinental powers,  yet  in  all  our  encounters  with 
hor  she  has  been  defeated  by  America,  and  sig- 
nally so — and  would  be  again  and  again,  for 
the  same  reason,  were  other  quarrels  to  arise. 


ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    SOLDIER.  307 

The  Englishman  is  indeed  free  in  a  sense, 
even  a  sort  of  a  republican,  yet  the  American 
is  freer  and  much  more  of  a  republican,  and 
for  that  reason  the  better  fighter  of  the  two. 
It  is  utterly  false  that  the  more  ignorant,  the 
more  man  is  imbruted,  the  more  of  a  machine 
he  is,  therefore,  the  better  soldier.  More  false 
in  philosophy,  even,  than  in  fact.  An  Ameri- 
can army  composed  of  militia-men  of  New 
England,  with  a  good  cause,  is  an  army  abso- 
lutely invincible.  In  no  other  conceivable 
army  could  there  be  the  same  moral  power  ; 
and  in  every  part  of  the  Union  the  same  fact 
would  be  approximately  true.  The  well  mar- 
shalled, well  disciplined  automaton  brutes, 
called  standing  armies,  of  the  old  world, 
could  not  stand  long  enough  to  be  beaten. 

There  is  a  gain,  moreover,  on  the  part  of  the 
American,  in  the  nature  of  the  sentiment  of 
loyalty.  The  English  soldier  has  an  imagi- 
nary love  of  his  queen  or  king,  whom  he 
never  saw,  nor  ever  will  see  or  love  —  an 
abstract  feeling  of  loyalty  which  does  some- 
thing for  him  ;  he  has  the  feeling  of  a  subject 


30S  LONDON. 

toward  governors  and  masters,  whom  he  feels 
extremely  honored  in  defending  and  dying  for. 
And  could  there  be  on  the  part  of  the  sol- 
dier a  personal  knowledge  and  love  of  his 
king  or  queen,  as  there  was  among  so  many 
of  the  French  toward  Napoleon,  and  knew 
him  or  her  to  be  worthy  for  whom  he  was  to 
fight  and  die,  there  would  be  sense  and  chiv- 
alry in  the  service,  and  it  would  do  much  to 
raise  the  character  of  an  army.  But  who  can- 
not deplore  the  miserable  fate  of  the  multi- 
tudes who  poured  out  lives  for  such  monarchs 
as  the  Stuarts  —  the  two  Charleses  and  James? 
The  American  is  the  comitry  and  tfie  govern- 
ment in  his  own  person,  and  he  wields  his 
blows  as  the  lordly  knight  of  old  dealt  his  in 
defence  of  his  own  august  person  or  his 
princely  domain.  The  feeling  of  loyalty  here 
is  independent  of  all  personal  relations  ;  it  is  for 
the  country  and  the  government  as  it  is  at  the 
time — and  these  do  not  change;  if  they 
Avere  ever  worth  fighting  for  and  dying  for, 
they  are  now,  to-day,  and  will  be  to-morrow, 
and    the    next    year,    and    the    next    century. 


ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    SOLDIER.  'iOO 

There  is  no  succession  of  Henrys,  Charleses, 
Jameses,  to  degrade  the  noble  sentiment  to  a 
mere  personality,  wavering  and  changing  as 
human  character  and  dynasties  change.  Loy- 
alty in  a  republic  means  something. 

Is  there  a  more  striking  fact  in  modern  his- 
tory than  the  defeat  of  England  in  our  revolu- 
tionary war  ?  —  we,  a  feeble  people,  hardly  a 
people  at  all — -poor —  of  little  more  than  two 
millions,  sprinkled  thinly  over  our  immense 
territories,  —  they,  the  first  power  in  the  world, 
solid,  compact,  rich,  skilled  in  the  art  of  war, 
with  the  world  at  their  beck  ?  Their  defeat, 
after  a  protracted  struggle  of  eight  years,  was 
as  disgraceful  —  looked  at  in  a  mere  military 
point  of  view  —  as  the  fratricidal  war  was 
needless  and  atrocious  in  its  conception  and 
conduct,  looked  at  in  a  moral  point  of  view. 
So  it  was  in  the  brief  war  of  1812 ;  whenever 
there  was  a  fair  measuring  of  weapons,  the 
republican  arm  was  ever  the  stronger  and 
heavier  of  the  two,  and  the  defeat  was  no  less 
signal  in  the  second  case  than  in  the  first. 
These   astoundina:    differences  in  results    can 


310 


LONDOV. 


be  accounted  for,  not  by  any  trivial  or  })ar- 
tial  causes,  but  only  by  the  operation  of 
grand  principles  of  re))nblican  liberty  on  the 
one  side,  and  the  want  of  them  on  the 
other. 

Nothing  can  be  plainer  tlian  this,  that  if 
friendly  relations  and  feelings  have  not  here- 
tofore existed,  or  do  not  now  exist  between 
the  two  countries,  the  fault  must  lie  with  the 
elder  and  parent  state.  The  first,  and  natural, 
feeling  toward  England  was,  throughout  the 
colonies,  and  even  after  the  war  of  the  revo- 
lution, nothing  but  reverence  and  regard.  The 
injustice  and  wickedness  of  that  war  hardly 
caused  a  diminution  of  it;  certainly  not  even 
in  the  democratic  party  an  absolute  cessa- 
tion of  it,  or  a  general  hatred.  The  injury 
and  injustice  were  soon  forgotten  and  for- 
given. An  American  of  the  present  day  ex- 
periences, almost  without  exception,  and 
expresses  those  natural  sentiments  of  regard 
toward  England  with  which  youth  regards 
age,  exalted  reputation,   literary  pre-eminence. 


RELATIONS    OF    THE    TWO    PEOPLE.  311 

political  supremacy.  And  the  first  time  he 
goes  there,  especially  if  in  youth  or  middle 
life,  there  is  scarce  any  bounds  to  the  warm- 
hearted emotions  he  feels  and  generoiisly  in- 
dulges and  expresses.  Could  I  have  visited 
England  thirty  years  ago,  and  had  Victoria 
then  been  dueen,  I  could  have  kneeled  and 
kissed  the  very  hem  of  her  garment,  or  the 
earth  she  had  trodden  on,  from  a  strong  feeling 
of  natural  loyalty  toward  her  as  a  woman  and 
a  Queen,  and  sovereign  of  the  great  people 
over  whom  she  ruled.  Never  was  one  nation 
more  bound  to  another  by  instinctive  ties  of 
reverence  and  admiration,  than  America  to 
England  ;  and  but  for  the  want  of  all  sort  of 
return  of  any  like  sentiment,  on  the  part  of 
England,  that  feeling  would  have  remained. 
But,  while  young  America  was  all  fervor  and 
love,  Old  England  was  all  frigidity  and  ice. 
Her  language  and  her  acts  expressed  only  envy, 
jealousy,  and  hatred.  When  I  speak  of  Eng- 
land, I  mean  her  newspapers,  her  reviews,  her 
literature,  her  political  acts.  I  speak  not  of 
large  portions  of  her  people,  of  chiefly  the  whig 


312  LONDON'. 

or  reform  side  in  politics,  who  arc  of  quite  a 
different  character,  and  who,  in  kindly  regard 
toward  our  country,  seem  almost  like  ourselves. 
I  speak  of  her  as  she  is  fairly  enough  repre- 
sented by  her  soubri(|Uct,  John  l>nll,  standing 
for  that  portion  of  Tory  English,  by  whom  the 
rest  of  the  English  and  the  country  are  ruled 
—  that  sort  of  English,  whig  or  tory,  some- 
times one,  sometimes  the  other,  but  always 
one  and  the  same  in  its  spirit  of  encroachment 
and  aggrandizement  by  which  the  Eastcru 
Hemisphere  has  been  seized  and  held  captive, 
by  which  America  was  tyrannized  over  till  it 
broke  her  chains  and  escaped,  and  by  which 
encroachments  are  made,  or  sought  to  be  made, 
and  her  standard  planted  on  all  shores,  islands, 
and  continents,  civilized  or  uncivilized,  of  the 
earth.  With  the  surly  nature  of  that  animal, 
she  has  been  at  great  pains  ever  since  we  have 
been  a  nation,  to  do  all  in  her  power,  by  insult 
and  injnry  in  many  forms,  to  embitter  and  ex- 
asperate the  feelings  of  America.  And  she  has 
succeeded  only  too  well.  To  that  virtuous 
work  the  Edinburgh  Review  devoted  its  ffreat 


RKLATIONS    OF    THE    TWO    PEOPLE.  313 

abilities  with  zeal  and  constancy,  the  Quar- 
terly lagging  not  far  behind.  ^J'o  these  efforts, 
and  similar  ones  all  over  the  islands,  must  be 
traced  the  feelings  so  opposite  to  those  I 
have  just  described,  and  which  of  late  years 
have  prevailed  throughout  the  country.  It  is 
with  a  totally  different  feeling  from  that  with 
which  the  American  forty  years  ago  would 
have  visited  England,  with  which  he  would 
visit  the  same  scenes  now  —  or  rather,  perhaps, 
a  few  years  since,  as  it  is  quite  obvious  within 
these  (aw  years  how  much  more  humane  the 
spirit  of  her  literary  press  has  become,  espe- 
cially the  language  of  her  travellers,  how 
much  more  just  the  tone  of  her  reviews. 
Compare,  for  instance,  the  review  in  the  Edin- 
burgh, of  Ashe  or  Trollope,  Hall  or  Fearon, 
with  the  recent  one  of  Lyell,  and  note  the 
change.  It  is  not  after  all,  perhaps,  that  Eng- 
land is  absolutely  singular  in  her  language 
toward  us.  1  apprehend  it  is  very  much  the 
same  toward  other  nations  with  whom  she  is 
apt  to  come  into  collision.     She  is  actuated  in 

her  treatment  of  others  by  no  spirit  of  justice 

27 


314 


LONDON". 


or  generosity.*  And  her  estimates  of  foreign 
character  and  manners  are  the  last  that  are  to 
be  adopted  as  trustworthy  and  reliable.  Yet 
we  have  received  all  onr  notions  of  European 
life  and  character  from  the  English  press,  and 
are  to  this  day  imbued  with  English  prejudices 
almost  to  the  extent  with  the  English  them- 
selves. Till  within  a  very  few  years,  we 
have  had  no  other  idea  of  a  Frenchman,  than 
that  he  was  one  half  dancing-master,  and  one 
half  monkey,  a  people  of  light,  frivolous  char- 
acter, whose  maimers  were  as  fantastic  as  their 
principles  were  treacherous  and  false.  If  we 
wished  for  information  of  the  Italian,  the 
Dutchman,  the  German,  we  received  it  all 
through  the  same  discolored  medium,  the  Eng- 
lish press.  But  that  we  derived  little  but  what 
was   distorted   or   false    from  tliat  quarti.^r,  we 


*  It  is  very  far  from  a  flattering  iiiveiiess  whiuh  cnnlinenlals  — 
Italians  and  French  —  certainly,  draw  in  return  of  their  English 
neisfhliors.  The  poor  Italians  need  their  money,  and  they  take 
it  ;  hut  afterward  relieve  themselves  by  a  variety  of  expletives, 
not  exactly  complimentary  to  the  national  character.  The  truth 
is,  the  Ensjlish  are  no  where  liked  ;  on  the  continent,  often 
haled. 


ENGLISH    UNFAIRNESS.  315 

now  know,  from  the  light  that  has  broken  in 
from  other  sources,  and  can  infer  especially 
from  the  misrepresentations  which  were  circu- 
lated throughout  the  world  respecting  our- 
selves. Feeling  the  falseness  of  these,  that 
we  were  greatly  wronged  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  we  began  to  suspect  the  justice  of  those 
we  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  of  the  char- 
acters of  all  other  nations.  We  began  to 
doubt,  and  then  deny,  English  fairness  and 
truth.  So  tliat,  from  a  state  of  almost  unhesi- 
tating trust  in  the  word  of  the  English,  we 
have  passed  to  the  opposite  one  of  a  universal 
distrust.  We  have  found  the  necessity  of 
grounding  our  oj)inions  of  foreign  character 
and  manners  on  our  own  inquiries.  And  since 
our  impressions  of  this  sort  have  now  for  a 
considerable  period  been  derived  from  the 
reports  of  our  own  travellers  and  scholars, 
from  our  own  reviews  and  papers,  I  need  not 
say  with  what  a  different  feeling  we  now 
greet  the  Frenchman,  the  Italian,  the  German  ; 
how  our  kindly  and  charitable  judgments  have 
grown  and  expanded;  how  the  scales  of  Eng- 


316  LONDON. 

lisli  prejudice  have  fallen  from  our  eyes,  and 
we  now  see  and  know  the  men  of  other  na- 
tions as  they  are,  no  longer  as  painted  by  the 
English  caricaturist,  i.  c,  reviewer.  Through- 
out the  whole  country  a  grand  act  of  eman- 
cifiation  from  the  most  ignorant  and  slavish 
prejudices  has  been  consummated,  and  we  now 
stand  "disenthralled  and  free."  And  it  cannot 
be  thought  very  astonishing,  that,  wilh  the 
weight  of  tlie  English  narrowness  bearing 
down  upon  us  as  it  did  during  all  our  politi- 
cal youth,  we  failed  for  so  long  a  period  to 
shake  off  the  foreign  burden.  But  it  is  off  at 
last.  And  the  old  American-Englishman,  of 
whom  we  had  so  many  once,  is  now  scarcely 
to  be  found  in  the  land  —  only  a  few,  perhaps, 
in  some  of  the  fastnesses  of  New  England,  or 
the  remote  districts  of  the  South  ;  who  still 
wear  ruffled  shirts  and  white  cravats,  still 
believe  in  the  perfection  of  the  English  con- 
stitution, and  the  immaculate  stainlessness  of 
the  English  character. 

But  as  I  began  with  words  of  praise,  let  us 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    THE    PEOPLE.  317 

end  with  the  same.  We  will  not  leave  the 
theme  in  ill  humor  with  either  ourselves  or  the 
people  about  whom  we  have  been  thinking. 
To  be  sure  they  are  not  a  faultless  people. 
They  are  a  people  of  more  glaring  faults  than 
probably  any  other  —  more  obvious  and  more 
disagreeable — a  people,  even  where  the  good 
predominates  in  substantial  qualities,  rarely  to 
one's  taste.  Dr.  .Johnson  may  stand  well 
enough  for  an  impersonation  of  the  race  ; 
rough,  harsh,  rude,  unmannerly,  overbearing, 
proud,  surly,  insolent  and  shy;  but  then  placa- 
ble, sternly  upright,  nicely  honorable,  virtuous 
and  religious,  (with  a  dash  of  cant,)  bold, 
fearless,  above  all,  manly  ;  with  a  heart  soft 
as  a  woman's  when  reached,  but  not  easily 
reached  ;  taking  apparent  pleasure  in  offering 
affronts,  slights,  almost  insults,  yet  ending 
capriciously  in  kind  words,  and  often  kinder 
deeds;  like  all  great  men  and  nations,  I  be- 
lieve, taking  a  sort  of  pride  in  inconsistency, 
contradictions,  caprice,  —  and  if  this  sketch 
of  the   English  character  is  itself  marked  by 

inconsistencies,  it    is    only  the    more   sure  to 
27 


318  LONDON. 

be  ill  keeping  with  the  subject.*  Still,  if  we 
might  be  permitted  to  do  so,  we  would  gladly 
chime  in  with  the  poet's  burden, 

"  England,  with  all  ihj-  faults,  we  love  thee  still." 

At  least,  if  we  do  not,  and  may  not,  love,  we 
caimot  but  honor.  All  honor,  on  the  whole, 
to  such  a  people.  Honor  to  the  stubborn  stutf 
of  which  the  rough-coated  Englishman  is 
made.  No  flaccid  muscle  there  ;  all  bone,  iron 
muscle,  tough  sinew.  All  honor  to  the  un- 
flinching spirit  of  a  people  that  have  preserved 
and  handed  down  to  aftertimes  the  liberties, 
civil  and  religious,  which  they  first  secured, 
but  have  been  sorely  tempted  through  so  many 
ages,   by    wealth,   by    power,  by  flattery,  by 


*  National  c!iaracter  is  impressed  upon  a  people  not  liy  a  few, 
hut  by  the  great  majority  of  a  people.  The  Englisii  character 
1  lielieve  to  be  very  much  as  I  have  described  it.  The  common 
siatement  would  not,  I  imagine,  on  the  part  of  the  English  them- 
selves or  others,  be  very  dilTerent.  But  there  is  another  side 
belonging  to  a  respectable  minority,  so  opposite  that  it  hardly 
seems  as  if  it  could  be  characteristic  of  any  jiart  of  the  same 
race,  in  which  generosity,  kindliness,  civility,  hospitality,  abound, 
and  especially  toward  the  stranger  and  the  foreigner,  in  which 
the  American,  even,  is  permitted  to  share.  Nowhere  in  my  own 
country,  in  a  very  limited  experience,  indeed,  could  I  have  been 
treated  with  a  more  cordial,  whole-hearted  hospitality. 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF    THE    PEOPLE.        319 

bribery,  to  abandon  and  betray.  Honor  to  the 
heroes  of  Magna  Charta  ;  and  to  the  people, 
their  true  descendants,  whose  pertinacity  for 
the  right  afterward  withstood  the  wheedling, 
falsehoods,  sophistries,  of  the  polite  but  danger- 
ous Charles  —  and  to  the  sturdy  champions, 
who,  at  a  later  hour,  drove  from  the  throne  and 
from  the  shores  of  England  the  second  James, 
tyrant,  liar,  Catholic  "and  fool;  and  then,  by 
one  and  the  same  act,  secured  forever  the 
Protestant  succession  and  the  constitutional 
liberties  of  the  kingdom.  All  honor  to  such 
a  people.  And  although  they  do  not  like,  or 
love,  nor  care  for  much,  any  way,  America, 
and  we,  for  many  reasons,  like  her  as  little  ; 
yet,  I  am  sure,  there  is  a  strong  disposition 
here,  —  in  spite  of  such  language,  —  which 
there  is  not  there,  to  be  friends,  to  do  all 
in  our  power  toward  establishing  and  per- 
petuating friendship  with  a  nation  whom  in 
our  hearts  we  so  highly  venerate.  And  as  for 
England,  we  will  only  hope,  that,  as  in  the 
case  of  an  individual  when  he  reaches  old  age 
he  is  apt  to  grow  more  mild  and  gentle,  more 


320  LONDON. 

loving  and  so  more  lovable,  so  it  may  be  with 
her,  as  her  age  increases  npon  her ;  and  that 
we,  at  present  far  removed  from  the  regard  we 
once  entertained,  shall  be  able  to  return  ere 
long  to  a  sincere  and  hearty  re-adoption  of  the 
kindly  sentiment  that  universally  prevailed  in 
the  days  of  our  political  youth. 


14  DAY  USE 

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LOAN  DEPT. 

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